Blank
by Aalon
Summary: A new case at the Castle's Complex arises for Richard Castle and Kate Beckett as they attempt to deal with the ramifications and consequences of the last story. This is the 6th story in the Different Road Taken AU. Please read all stories in this AU first. It is imperative that you have read A Fly in the Garden and Mannequins and Marionettes before reading Blank.
1. Chapter 1

**Blank: Chapter 1**

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**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

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_**Monday, 8:08 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Castle's Complex for Battered Women**_

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It's dark outside, as the sun has set a while ago against the vast Pacific Ocean just over the forest that rises into the hills behind him. Richard Castle sits at his desk, his feet propped up facing the large expansive window, which is simply a portal to the massive trees that adorn the large campus. The small laptop teeters precariously on his thighs as he is lost in thought. He doesn't hear the door open or the woman of his dreams walk silently into the office.

Kate Beckett approaches slowly, almost reverently. She doesn't want to spook him. Sure, she is overreacting but . . . no, on second thought, she is not overreacting. Sure, they are being very careful these days. Well, these past two weeks, since 'the event'.

That's what they are calling it; the whole visit-the-massage-parlor-and-drop-dead routine. The Event. So much has changed for them since that time, beginning with how they speak, where they go, how they approach each other – ever wary of doing anything that might even remotely spook one Richard Castle.

So yes, they are being cautious, and who can blame them? Just one slip-up, one mistake, and they both realize that two weeks of memories – damn good memories – are gone forever as far as he is concerned. She speaks softly as she addresses him.

"I assume Jerry got the taxes finished and filed?" she asks, referring to Jerry Webster, Castle's new corporate accountant.

Oh, hey babe," he greets her, a broad smile on his face in contrast to the dark viewing beyond the window.

"Yeah, he finished last night, actually," Castle replies. "I know I haven't done my own taxes in years, but now – with this little project we have out here – it's darn near impossible for me to do them anymore, even if I wanted."

Kate smiles as she walks to the desk, placing a cup of coffee in his hands. A large image of Jabba the Hut adorns the cup. He gazes at the image, smiling.

"Thank you," he offers, putting the cup up to his lips and blowing into the hot liquid.

"Tell me how you found him again?" she asks. Another unnecessary question, and a new element of their relationship during the past two weeks. They have fallen into a routine of her asking questions she already knows the answer to. That's not the point. The point is whether or not_ he_ knows the answer. Whether he remembers. These little tests of his memory are something they agreed upon a couple of weeks ago.

After the Event.

"I found him through Ken Blackmon – a CEO down in the valley," Castle answers with a smile as he digs back into his perfectly-operating memory banks.

"He was one of the early investors in the Castles, and during that time we got to talking about what the Castles would mean to me financially," Castle reminisces. "From a tax perspective, that is."

"That's right," Kate nods. "I'm still trying to keep all of these people straight." It's a small fib. He ignores it.

"Well, you've been here a whopping four month and two days," he smiles. "I'd say you've done a fantastic job keeping it all together. By the way, for the hundredth time I know, thank you again for doing this. For coming out here. For staying out here with me."

"I had no choice, babe," she tells him, as she moves the laptop computer off of his lap, replacing it with her own hips and legs as she settles into his lap.

"Oh yes, you did," he argues. "You could have –"

"No, Rick," she cuts him off. "I couldn't. Not anymore. Thank God for that."

He can only smile in agreement. They have come such a long way in such a short amount of time. But this latest 'case' if you will – the one that brought on 'the Event' – this one has both of them spooked, and they both know it. The possibility . . . no, scratch that . . . the high _probability_, the sheer likelihood that at some point in the coming days, or weeks, or months that something will happen . . . a loud noise . . . a frightening situation . . . something will happen that will trigger another relapse . . .

And then all of those days, or weeks, or months . . . including these last two weeks . . . they will be gone to him. He won't remember a thing beyond the night of 'the Event.'

She gazes out at the darkness outside the window. It's just past 8 p.m. and normally he is out of here by 6 o'clock. She leans into him, nuzzling her hair underneath his chin. She knows how much he likes when she does this.

"What's going on, babe? I had to come all the way back here just to see how you are doing." she almost purrs underneath him. "Normally you are home by now, and here I find you avoiding me, sitting in the dark. It can make a girl start to worry . . ."

"Far from avoiding you," he chuckles. "I'm just writing, that's all."

"Really?!" she exclaims.

He can feel her smile and her excitement under his chin. She is thrilled, of course, at this news. It has been almost a year since he has written anything beyond a few letters and stories for her – and even those were last year during their separation when he came to the west coast. Since then, he hasn't really written anything.

So, to see him focused and working late – on a novel, on a new book no less – yeah, it brings a smile to her face. It is a good sign – especially given everything he has gone through in the past couple of weeks. Perhaps it is the one good thing that has come out of their most recent adventure, for lack of a better term.

She looks toward the desk where he has placed the laptop computer, and squints to read what is there. She lowers her head, frowning – her initial enthusiasm now dampened.

"What is this?" she asks, as she realizes that this is far from a new novel with rich new characters and storylines he is working on.

"It's a diary of sorts," he replies. "A journal. A record of my days. My . . . my memories. I started keeping a diary every day since our . . . since the event."

"Why?" Kate asks. It is just habit. She knows exactly why he might want to do this, and it breaks her heart.

"So that I will remember everything," he replies, and he feels the subtle nod of her head beneath his chin. He nods along with her.

"I am writing so I don't lose anything," he continues. "We both know I am going to relapse someday. We don't know when. We don't know how –"

She begins to argue but he cuts her off.

"We both know this, Kate," he continues. "Best to embrace it, plan for it."

"How in the world do we plan for something like this?" she mumbles into his chest.

"By writing," he tells her.

"I don't understand," she replies, still planted in his lap beneath his chin.

"Every day, I write what happened to me," he tells her. He reaches down, turning her face up toward his own."

"I write about what I did. What you did. Things we talked about. Things we agreed upon. Things we disagreed about. Funny things you said. Mistakes I made. Decisions we have already made. So, when it happens – when I drop out and lose my memory – and we both _know I will_ . . . it's going to happen . . . and when it does, I will have something to read, something to guide me back as much as possible."

She gazes at the top of the page and sees the title. North Star. So appropriate. It takes her back to a conversation that seems so long ago with Alexis – a conversation that occurred only four months ago. A conversation about truths.

"Nice title," she muses.

"It will become my anchor, my north star," he remarks, sadly. "My true north when I don't remember. My truth that I no longer remember. But just because I cannot remember does not mean it is not still truth."

"That's what I am here for, babe," she tells him. She desperately wants to be that true north for him. The conversation with Alexis hit deep. Took roots.

"What if you're not?" he asks. He can feel her recoil against him, and quickly explains his mindset.

"No, really babe," he continues. "What if you're gone? Now don't look at me like that, it's possible. Not likely, I admit. But possible. What if you're dead? What if you're in a hospital in a coma? It's not exactly like _that_ has never happened. What if you're back east for a weekend visiting your father – I have to know, Kate. I have to know what is going on."

"I don't want my life to be turned into a movie, Rick," she mumbles beneath him.

"Hey, I'll have you know that _50 First Dates_ was our favorite movie," he laughs above her.

"Yeah, until it became our reality," she reminds him.

"Touche," he admits.

Yeah, it's been an interesting couple of weeks for the two of them – dealing with his new normal. And the ramifications of this new normal.

First, he is understandably upset that he has been relegated to 'desk duty'. There have been a couple of incidents at the complex; a new admission, a clogged toilet, a disgruntled husband wanting to visit – all normal things that normally wouldn't be an issue.

Under normal circumstances. But these are anything but normal. Everyone is treating him with kid gloves . . . protecting him. They are keeping him away from things . . . and by things, that means darn near everything.

It's driving him nuts . . . and alternately pissing him off.

And then there was the surprise departure.

Karen Marks has checked out. The plan was for her to stay longer, but with the death of her boyfriend two weeks ago, she wants to get back to her house. Re-start her life in her own house, with her child. It was not lost on anyone that Karen Marks had left _her own house_ to get away from her boyfriend who lived with her. It was – and is – her house. Not his. Yet she was the one who left. He stayed. At her house. Now that her house is no longer a danger to her, she feels it is time to go. No one can blame her. It's the right decision.

Except for the therapy. Her home is safe now, but her mind, her mental state is still a question mark. There is still much work to do there.

Now they have to consider how to continue her therapy sessions with Dr. Samantha Peraza when the woman who needs the help is no longer at the complex. Something they hadn't thought about. How to continue sessions when someone leaves early.

Like Karen Marks, Regina Overstreet also lost her 'significant other' in the past two weeks – her husband Josh – during the actions that led up to 'the event.' Regina, however, has decided to stay. Going back home to her mother, who was – let's say – hesitant with her support for her daughter is not the woman's first option. She has chosen to say a while longer, spend more time with Dr. Peraza, and just spend more time healing.

"_You're not kicking me out, are you?" Regina had asked when she heard that Karen Marks was leaving, and her reasoning why._

"_Absolutely not," Castle had replied adamantly._

"_Then if it is all right with you, I think I will stay a while longer," Regina had decided, bringing a sigh of relief to Kate Beckett._

Even with an early departure, the Castles Complex is – and has been – a resounding success. With Marks' departure, it leaves ninety-seven women in the safe community, just three families short of full occupancy. Now, just four months into housing these women, Richard Castle is mulling over expansion ideas much sooner than he or anyone expected.

A somewhat bony elbow in the ribs from Kate Beckett interrupts his thoughts, bringing him back to the present.

"Ow," he mock-cries.

"You big baby," she retorts smiling.

She pulls herself off his lap, and dusts imaginary lint from her jeans. Jeans. It is a good look on her. One he still is not used to, but loves, nonetheless. It is a much more casual Kate Beckett that lives with him here on the west coast than he knew back in New York.

"Hey, how did you get out here, anyway?" he asks.

I took your Ferrari, of course," she winks at him.

"Then how was I supposed to get home?" he replies, smiling. "Looks like you're the one who wanted to leave me stranded here"

"Well, you do know how I love rescuing a damsel in distress," she laughs, bouncing towards the door, quickly ducking to avoid a crumpled-up piece of paper that soars by her head.

"Let's go, writer-boy," she laughs, and he joins her. It has been a while – almost a year – since she has called him that. Since anyone has called him that. It strikes both of them yet again how long it has been since he has written anything for public consumption.

"_That's not who he is anymore," _she reminds herself. _"At least not right now."_

"I'll meet you at the car," he promises. "Just thirty more seconds, babe."

She closes the door gently. He waits until he hears the clicking of her small heels echo further and further away. He quickly spins his chair back toward the credenza behind him and pulls out a small key that opens the narrow, upper right-hand drawer. He smiles as he fondles the small jewelry box that he placed here just days ago.

His plan is to propose to the ex-detective this weekend. Sure, she has only been out here for four months, but as they have both documented, they have been doing this dance for over four years. Enough is enough. She is either the one, or she isn't. He's decided that she is. It should be no surprise to her now.

His mind goes back to a conversation with Alexis just last night, in the young woman's bedroom away from the ex-detective's damn-near Vulcan hearing.

"_I want you to video tape the me proposing, Pumpkin," he had told her last night._

"_Oh Dad," the redhead had gushed, "I'm so proud of you. That's such a millennial thing to do!"_

"_I have good reasons for this, Alexis, and they have nothing to do with keeping up with your socially-overactive generation," he had reminded her. "You know how likely it is that I am going to experience a relapse at some point. And when that happens – unless there are great advances made in the antidote Sam has promised – when that happens my last memory is going to be of standing outside a massage parlor in Chinatown."_

"_Dad, you could be fine," she had argued. "Nothing may happen until Christmas for all we know. And even then, Mr. Carlos could have a new antidote that –"_

"_And yet, I could suffer a relapse at Christmas and lose seven, eight months of memories and be thrown back to that damn massage parlor, Pumpkin," he reminds her. "I wouldn't remember proposing to Kate. I wouldn't remember getting married. Or the honeymoon. Arguments we had, make-up agreements we forge. All of it lost to me like sand sifting in the wind – and we are back to square one."_

"_Ah, there is my author daddy," she had smiled, and he had to smile with her. At least for a few seconds._

"_I'm serious," he had told her, bringing her back to the moment. "I want you to video-tape everything. The proposal, the reception dinner, the wedding itself, our first dance as a married couple –"_

"_Dad, I am not videotaping the consummation!" Alexis had deadpanned, bringing a pale complexion to her father's skin tone._

He chuckles, thinking of the end of that conversation, as he rolls the small box across his fingers, then all-too-gently replaces it back into the drawer. He closes the drawer, locking it as he stands, then heads toward the door.

He wants to get this done, and quickly. His biggest fear right now? That something happens between now and this Saturday night, when he plans to take Kate back to the Cliff House, to that same spot along the seawall where it really began to meld for them back in December, on her first night in San Francisco. The perfect spot, where she dreamed of bringing the man she loved since her Stanford days.

His biggest fear is that something happens between now and then, and he is thrown back to two weeks ago outside the massage parlor . . . with no memory that he even planned on proposing to the ex-detective. How long would it be – how many weeks or months would pass before he thinks to look into the secret drawer in his credenza? And how would he even remember what that key in his main desk drawer is even for?

No, this has to happen. This weekend. He's made the reservation at the Cliff House restaurant. Alexis will be set up with her phone, unbeknownst to Kate, ready to record everything for posterity. And more than posterity, for a reminder in case that becomes necessary.

He saunters out of his office, whistling a happy tune as he walks toward the front door of the administration building. He offers a wave to Colin Alexander and Dawn Harrison, who sit at a table in the foyer area, sipping on coffee. Both have the night shift coming up. They smile back at him, and he is struck again at his fortune for having such a fantastic team.

"How's the leg, Dawn?" Castle asks. Harrison, of course, had taken a bullet to the thigh less than six weeks ago during the siege on the Castle's Complex.

"Almost good as new, boss," the woman replies. "We were lucky."

"You can say that again," Colin Alexander remarks. "A through-and-through on the edge of the thigh. The bullet could have gone inward instead of outward."

"I would have had a lot more damage, for certain," she agrees. "I guess I just live right," she chuckles, and both men join in as Castle nods to the pair and walks out the door. Kate is waiting for him in the first parking spot, already in the driver's seat of the Ferrari, a bright smile on her face.

"I guess I am riding tonight," he smiles in return. He hops into the car and Kate fires the machine up and barely has the sportster in reverse before Castle's phone starts ringing. He glances down and sees the face and contact information of Ron Daniels pop up.

"Hmmm" he hears Kate mumble, and he has the same immediate thought as the hackles on his neck stand at attention. Ron Daniels is responsible for client pick-ups. He calls to say that a pick-up has been made, or not made. Both Castle and Kate immediately think of Penny Zimmerman.

"Did you know there was a pick-up tonight?" Kate asks.

"Yes," Castle replies. "Hopefully Ron is just following protocol for a pick-up."

"If that were the case, he'd be calling Colin inside," Kate remarks, a frown on her face.

"_My fear exactly,"_ Castle thinks to himself as he answers the phone, placing the call on speakerphone so that Kate can listen in and comment as necessary.

"Hey Ron, it's Rick," Castle greets his limo driver. "No problems I hope?"

"Wish I could say that, boss," Ron Daniels replies. "Unfortunately, we have a problem."

"What kind of problem, Ron," Kate asks, her voice all business. Any humor, fun or bantering that the couple just enjoyed as evaporated in an instant.

"Well," Ron begins in his slightly Southern drawl, "we actually have a series of problems here."

"Explain, Ron," Castle interrupts, now both impatient and nervous.

"The call came from a Cynthia Romaines," Ron begins. "Husband's name is Jeremy. Or rather, I should say, husband's name _was _Jeremy."

And just like that, the night becomes darker, as Kate Beckett quickly grabs Richard Castle's hand for support.

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**A/N:** This new tale is going to go a little deeper into the whole domestic violence world, with a twist, of course. Given that the reason for Castle being in California in the first place, a return to the reason he is here is in order. Combined with his 'new normal' and the concerns that raises for our favorite couple, this gives us a lot of leeway in where to go with this.

Thank you to everyone for the kind words and wishes after my last story. All of you are more important than you realize.


	2. Chapter 2

**Blank: Chapter 2**

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**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

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_**Monday, 8:25 p.m. on April 16, 2012 in the driveway in front of the Castle's Complex for Battered Women**_

"I can't help but notice the past-tense usage of the word 'is'," Richard Castle remarks as Kate guns the car in reverse, backing out of the parking spot.

"I don't like 'was'," he continues. "Please tell me that was a mistake on your part."

"Wish I could, boss-man," Daniels half smiles into the receiver, his southern accent thick and heavy. Both Castle and Kate in the car smile, as it is a dialect that is totally not . . . Californian.

"What happened, Ron?" Kate asks. For his part, Richard Castle just gazes at the woman next to him, still amazed at how quickly – and effortlessly – she morphs from girlfriend to case worker to private investigator. Neither of them expected her to wear so many hats when she came out west.

"Extraordinary, indeed," he mutters to himself.

"What was that, boss?" Daniels asks, his confusion evident even on the phone.

"Nothing, Ron," she laughs, playfully brushing his hand away. She recognizes the pattern. Something decidedly wrong has happened, and their little moment of peace and solitude is getting ready to be blown sky-high. The little humor, the playful banter – she knows it is Castle's way of preparing himself. She saw the same thing – the humor, the banter – when they first started working together back in New York, and the then-novelist had to get used to the very morbid concept of 'body drops.'

"Well, like I said," Daniels continues, "the call came from a Cynthia Romaines. She and her husband lived . . . well, live in south Daly City. I went there for the pick-up. Cynthia didn't seem too upset on the call, so there was no way we could have suspected anything. By 'not too upset', I mean her call was no different really from any other call we get from a woman calling for help."

"No one is blaming you, Ron," Castle begins, but Daniels cuts him off.

"Oh, I know that, man," Daniels tells the couple. "But if I'd known something was up, I would have used the chopper, gotten here quicker –"

"You're still there, then?" Castle asks.

"Still here," Daniels confirms. "Here with what's left of her husband."

"I assume he is dead, then?" Castle asks.

"Dead, or damn sleepy," Daniels chuckles, and Kate cannot suppress the grin that comes to her face. It is Daniel's way of coping, of dealing with death. They all do it differently. The Alabama man uses humor to get himself through these little situations.

"Jeremy is lying here with a hole in his head," Daniels continues, "and there is neither hide nor tail of his wife, who placed the call."

"She shot him?" Kate asks, glancing at Castle.

"No . . . my vote is the bloody baseball bat that is lying here next to ol' Jeremy," Daniels tells her. "On the surface, it looks like a domestic dispute gone really, really bad, and the husband took the brunt of it."

"You said 'on the surface', Ron," Kate interrupts. "Does that mean you suspect something different?"

"You and Mr. Castle are on the way here, I assume?" he asks, by way of an answer.

"Yes, Ron," Castle replies. "We literally were pulling out from the facilities when you called."

"Good, good, then I'm glad I caught you before you two got home," Daniels tells them. "Truth is, I'd like you both to see the crime scene before San Francisco's Finest arrive. Make your own determination then."

"They aren't there yet?" Kate asks, somewhat surprised since this has suddenly become a murder scene, not just a domestic call for help.

"Why would they be?" Ron answers. "Mrs. Romaines made the call to the Castles. To us. Right now, we are the only ones who know anything happened here, unless she called 911. And given than no one else is here and I don't hear any sirens, I reckon she didn't place that 911 call."

"That makes sense," the duo in the car reply simultaneously, bringing a small smile to both faces.

"Can't we just have a solid month of normal pick-ups?" Castle asks the universe at large.

"You know we don't do normal around here, boss," Daniels chuckles. "See you when you get here. I will call 911, and make sure they don't do anything stupid before you two get here."

"Wait a second, Ron," Castle asks, as he stares out the window and the lush dark forest the pass through. "You mentioned that there were a series of problems – that's plural – is Mrs. Romaines all right?"

"You must have missed that part, boss. Your guess is as good as mine," Ron replies. "She's nowhere to be seen."

"She's not there?" Castle asks.

"She's not here," Daniels answers.

"Well, that's not good," Castle remarks, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

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_**Monday, 8:40 p.m. on April 16, 2012 in the Mission District of San Francisco**_

Detective Jennifer Blackard sits across the large sofa – longways – in her living room. She is dressed in gray sweatpants and a reddish-maroon sweatshirt with a large Cardinal logo. Evidently, college school spirit dies hard with the young woman. Her shoulder holster carrying her weapon lies on the coffee table in front of her, always close at hand.

She holds a beer in her hand and is focused on the television, watching some National Geographic nature show, totally enthralled in a cheetah running down a herd of zebras when her phone buzzes. She glances down at the incoming text message, frowning.

'_Got a minute?'_

The text is from Kate Beckett. Sure, they are friends. Very good friends. They have a long history that dates back to college days, and has recently been reinforced in the most dramatic – and traumatic – of fashion. But it is also almost nine o'clock at night. If nothing is wrong, Kate just calls. If something is wrong, she texts first. Whether it is a habit the ex-NYPD detective is cognizant of is anyone's guess. But history is telling Jennifer Blackard that her plans for a quiet Monday night in front of the television are being blown up.

With a sigh of anticipation, hoping she is wrong, Blackard types out her response.

'_For you, always,'_

She waits less than fifteen seconds before the reply comes in the form of a phone call from her newly-transplanted friend.

"Hey Kate," Jennifer begins. "What can San Francisco's Finest do for you?"

"How did you know this wasn't just a friendly call from one friend to another?" Kate asks, a small amount of humor in her voice.

"I just knew," Blackard responds. "What's up, Kate?"

"A favor," Kate tells her. "And I know I am always asking for favors it seems."

"Not to worry, my friend," Jennifer chuckles. "I suspect the universe will turn things around soon enough and I will be the one asking for favors."

"Hey, Hey! Why even throw that out into the universe?" Richard Castle interrupts, listening in on speakerphone. "Don't we have enough to deal with already?"

"Oh, hey Rick," Jennifer greets him. "Should have figured I was on speakerphone. Again . . . what's up?"

"Rick and I are just leaving the complex," Kate begins. "We are headed into the city. Actually, into Daly City for a . . . well, to be honest, Jen, we aren't sure what the situation is. The complex received a call for a pickup, and when our man arrived on the scene to pick the woman in question up, she wasn't there, and her husband was dead on the floor. Ron, our man there, is assuming she killed him with a baseball bat."

"That's kind of Lindy's thing, isn't it?" Jennifer chuckles to herself, remembering coming across a foursome of unfortunate men who ran into the woman with Castle's favorite bat just a couple of months ago.

"Please, don't speak of that anymore," Castle mutters in mock disappointment, bringing laughter to the woman driving beside him.

"Still one of the funniest scenes ever, Jen," Kate tells her, as she rewinds and recalls the conversation between Richard Castle and Lindy Matthews that night, when Castle saw what was left of his beloved piece of Yankee history.

"Rick told her that that bat was one of his most treasured possessions," Kate tells her, and is quickly interrupted by Castle.

"And Lindy tells _me_ – and I quote – 'Not anymore'," Castle continues the story.

The threesome share a laugh at the memory, and the laughter dies down after a few seconds. Then it is back to business.

"Anyway, back to the reason for my call," Kate continues. "Rick and I are easily thirty, forty minutes out, even in his little monster here. I'm wondering if I could trouble you to go to the scene – assuming you're home."

"That I am, in sweats with a beer and a good TV show," Blackard answers.

"Let me guess . . . some nature show," Castle remarks with a smile.

"You know me well, Rick . . . and I am wondering exactly how that came to be."

"We writers are observant and great listeners," he tells her, still smiling. "Seriously, though – if you are home, that means you're in the Mission District, and could be there in ten, fifteen tops."

"Give me the address," Jen tells the duo as she pulls herself up from the couch and places the bottle of half-empty beer on the coffee table.

"I will text it to you," Kate tells her. "Ron Daniels is already there, as I said. The residence is for a Jeremy and Cynthia Romaines."

"Good enough," Jennifer replies, and then hesitates. Her silence is noticeable to the couple on the other end of the call.

"What's on your mind, Jennifer?" Castle asks, although he suspects what is coming.

"Well," Jennifer begins, then pauses again before continuing. "Given the nature of Mr. Romaines, are you sure this is a crime scene you should be stepping into, Rick?"

She knows the response she is going to get. Heck, they all know what their coddling of the ex-writer is doing to him, but they just cannot help themselves.

"Dammit, Jennifer, I am not an invalid. Don't treat me like a burden –"

"Rick, you know that's not what –"

"That is exactly what you are doing, Detective Blackard," he spits out. "You, and Kate, and Mike and the whole damn lot of you. You're walking on eggshells around me, and I hate it. I hate it!"

Kate grabs his hand and forcibly entwines her fingers within his.

"We just love you, Rick," she tells him softly. "We're trying to figure this new place out as much as you are."

Richard Castle gazes at her for a few seconds, then turns his head and faces the window. He knows she's right. But he's right, too. He nods his head – in understanding if not agreement – and is silent as they pull onto Highway 101, headed toward the bridge in the distance that will take them across the bay into the city, where they will catch the old Hwy-1 and head into Daly City.

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_**Still Monday Night, 8:45 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Santa Clara residence of NuGenetix CEO Andrew Klein**_

Captain Rodney Jeffries sits behind the wheel of his austere dark gray Chevy sedan. He has forgone the 2010 Silver SUV tonight. Too recognizable. Too memorable. No, he doesn't want anyone noticing his car – or himself – this evening. He is parked some one hundred yards down the road from Klein's house here in the valley. It was a long drive for the SFPD Captain; one he really did not want to make. However, the councilman pays him a clean ten thousand dollars a month under the table for moments such as this.

The man in question – Barry Adams – sits next to him behind darkened windows in the sedan. He is unusually quiet.

Normally, Barry Adams has use of Jeffries' muscle. The six-foot, four-inch black man weighs roughly two hundred and thirty pounds. At forty-one years of age, his body is still in football shape. And the man has shown a proclivity for the 'grunt work' as Adams likes to refer to the more physical aspect of the tasks he doles out. Now, with Benny dead, or gone MIA – whichever it is – since the failed siege on the Castles Complex across the bridge, Jeffries has been promoted within the clandestine ranks of Adam's organization due to nothing more than a shortage of resources.

Tonight's task, however, is not physical. At least not yet.

Two weeks ago, at Adams request – for reasons he has chosen not to share with Jeffries – the SPFD Captain had been asked to keep a watch out for the usage of credit cards of one Andrew Klein, or Cassandra Klein. For almost two weeks, there had been nothing. Not one usage. It had been as though the Silicon Valley power couple had fallen off the face of the earth. Which had proven all the more maddening to the councilman.

Two weeks ago, Barry Adams had awakened in his bed in his Embarcadero loft . . . alone. The last memory he had was of he and Susan sitting in a somewhat dark and foreboding room. A basement. A dungeon of sorts. He isn't that clear on it. He doesn't remember how they got there. Or where 'there' actually was. All he knows is that they were not alone. With them were Andrew and Cassandra Klein. They are sitting in four chairs, having a discussion with one Sam Carlos.

That's it.

That's all that he remembers.

Knowing Sam Carlos, and knowing the environment they were in, he was somewhat surprised when he woke up alive. Carlos' reputation precedes him. That he left all four alive is a rarity in the world of the San Francisco mobster.

Since that time, however, he hasn't seen his wife, Susan. And the Kleins have disappeared off the face of the earth. He had place numerous calls to the Silicon Valley CEO – both at his residence and his Silicon Valley office. Andrew's executive assistant had simply told him that Andrew and Cassandra had decided to take some time off and would be back when they came back. That, in itself, had spooked Barry Adams, knowing how Klein just disappearing – now, at this time – would, in turn, spook his investors. That he would risk alienating those investors at this particular time frightens Adams all the more.

But he needs Andrew Klein. He needs to understand exactly what happened. He needs to understand where Susan is. He doesn't remember. He suspects . . . he hopes it isn't true, but he suspects it is because he, too, has been drugged with RSX3. That's the only explanation for why he doesn't remember.

Now, earlier this afternoon, Adams received a phone call from Rodney Jeffries, telling him that – finally – a ping on one of their credit cards popped up. Evidently, Cassandra used an American Express card for a flight from Vancouver to San Francisco. The flight should have landed around 6:30pm. Adams immediately ordered – yes, ordered – Jeffries to pick him up and drive down to Santa Clara.

So, here they sit in silence. It is almost nine o'clock. If the plane landed on time at SFO, then the couple really should have been here by now. That they aren't is causing more consternation in the mind of the San Francisco city councilman. His trepidation is over now, as he sees the taxi drive past them and stop a football field ahead of them at the Klein's home.

Without being asked, Rodney Jeffries pulls out binoculars, and takes a quick glance, before turning his attention back to his 'other' boss.

"That's them," Jeffries remarks. "Now what?"

"Now we give them a few minutes to get settled in, to relax," Adams replies bitterly, "And then we go and visit them. We find out what has happened to my wife!"

.

**A/N:** A lot going on here, as we set the stage for this next story. A woman – a wife – calls the Castles Complex for a pick-up, but is no where to be seen when help arrives. Her husband is dead, supposedly bludgeoned with a baseball bat. Castle and Kate are on their way, navigating through their new normal, while Councilman Barry Adams has been going nuts for two weeks, wondering where his wife is, wondering what Sam Carlos has done, and wondering where in the world the only two people who can give him answers have gone. That's our starting point. I hope you enjoy the story here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Blank: Chapter 3**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

_**Monday, 8:40 p.m. on April 16, 2012 Coming into San Francisco on the Golden Gate Bridge**_

"So beautiful," he muses half to himself, as he glances upward at the reddish rust covered structure rising hundreds of feet above them. Richard Castle and Kate Beckett have been quiet for the last ten or so minutes in the drive from the Castles Complex. Both are deep in thought – for different reasons, of course.

For her part, the ex-NYPD detective is re-thinking even bringing Richard Castle to this latest crime scene. It matters not to her that it is directly related to the wonderful complex he has built out here. She doesn't want any setbacks. Not at this time. Things have been going as well as they could have hoped after leaving the hospital two weeks ago. He doesn't need this.

However, in the ex-writer's mind, this is exactly what he needs. For Castle, this is a distraction; a welcome one. He's tired of everyone playing hands-off with him. He needs to feel involved. He needs to feel useful.

And he needs answers.

"Babe," he begins as he takes his eyes off the massive structure above them and points his gaze out westward to the Pacific Ocean in the distance. "I know we haven't really talked about this. I know there are so many things we haven't talked about since . . . since the event."

Kate clears her mind of her previous musings, now focusing in on the discussion at hand. Truth be told, she has no idea where he is going to take them with this one.

"Talked about what, Rick?" she asks, not taking her gaze off the road.

"Barry Adams," he replies.

Kate is quiet for a few seconds before responding.

"Oh. Him," she replies.

"Yeah. Him," he answers, still looking out towards the westward ocean.

"From our discussions with Sam," he continues, "and things I've put together in my head, here is what I have come up with."

He turns, facing her, his eyes boring into the side of her face. She can almost feel the pressure coming from him. Impossible, sure, but the mind plays its tricks. She faces him for a brief instant, letting him know she is listening, she is there with him, before she returns her gaze to the road.

"The councilman was the one behind everything," he continues. "He had us tailed. He had us t-boned in the middle of the road. He is the one who was behind the kidnapping of all of those women. And he is the one who ordered the attack on our complex."

Despite herself, she smiles as she hears him refer to it as 'our' complex. Not his. Theirs. Together. He knows the reason for her smile and he gives her one in return. He then turns his gaze back toward the waters out and below.

"Barry Adams is the one who had two men associated with our women killed. He's the one who had me drugged."

"We know all of this, babe," Kate tells him, glancing quickly his way. "Why all the –"

"Why is he still alive?" Castle asks. The question brings a widening of the eyes from his partner, his lover. His best friend. She knows him well. Better than most. Yet the very idea that he has even mentally broached the concept of Barry Adams dying for his very long list of sins still takes her aback. She wonders exactly how much he has changed in the past two weeks, because of the event.

And could she blame him?

"Geesh, Rick," she begins, her years of police training and being a cop on the street taking over.

"We aren't a lawless society. We aren't judge, jury and executioner," she tells him.

"But we both know someone who is," he replies nonchalantly, again throwing her a massive curve with the almost callous way he tosses the idea out. Before she can react, he continues.

"We suspect . . . through rumors and what you have told me . . . that Sam has removed more than a few people from society," he almost whispers to the window he faces. "Hell, babe, he even admitted as much to you, me and Jennifer regarding the Blankenships."

"Rick, where are you going with –"

"Why did he allow Barry to live?" Castle asks her, now facing her again. "With all of the things he has done. His underlings? The Blankenships and God only knows who else . . . they are gone. Dead. But the mastermind is still walking around free. Why? Why would he allow that? Why save that man? After everything he has done, everything he put us through."

He glances back out over the ocean as they reach the end of the bridge on the highway, now speeding towards the Presidio area.

"After everything he did to me?" Castle continues, almost under his breath.

"Babe," she almost whispers, trying to gather her thoughts. Truth be told, it is a question she has asked herself as well, but never voiced to the man she loves.

"He may be comfortable with Barry Adams walking around free," Castle tells her. "And _you_ may be comfortable with that as well. But _I_ am not."

"Wait a minute, Rick. Neither am - " Kate tries to interrupt, but he brushes her words away.

"I am not comfortable with the man who caused my car accident, who attacked my complex, who drugged me with that damn drug . . . I am not comfortable knowing he is walking around free. You and Mike and everyone have been treating me with kid gloves, trying to keep me calm. Well let me ask you, Kate. How the hell am I supposed to remain calm knowing there is someone out there trying to hurt me, trying to kill me – and he is walking free? And I'm supposed to be okay with all of this?"

Before she can answer, his phone rings. He glances down at the caller ID and allows a wistful smile to cross his lips.

"Hey pumpkin," he answers, smiling broadly now. Yeah, he is getting better at compartmentalizing things. For now.

"Saved by the bell," Kate half mutters to herself. At least she thought she did.

"We aren't done," he tells her, his hand over the phone and his eyes piercing through the night air directly into her consciousness. "Not by a longshot."

.

_**Still Monday Night, 9:01 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Santa Clara residence of NuGenetix CEO Andrew Klein**_

The ringing doorbell startles both Andrew Klein and his wife, Cassandra. They have barely begun unpacking their bags – silently as both are deep in thought – and putting things away before the intruding sound invades the quiet of their bedroom.

"Now who can that be?" he asks aloud. "We just got home."

He walks out of the room toward the door, muttering to himself.

"It's almost as if someone were waiting for us, watching when we got home," he continues as he walks toward the door. He is surprised by the tug on his shoulder, and the concern in his wife's eyes.

"Maybe you aren't too far off from the truth," Cassy whispers to her husband, stopping him in his tracks. He glances at the door, indecisive.

"What do I do?" he asks, his eyes darting back and forth.

"Answer the door, babe," his wife tells him, taking charge. They've been gone for two weeks. Part of the reason for getting away was to just do that . . . get away. Away from his questioning employees. Away from Councilman Barry Adams. Away from Sam Carlos. Away from the horror story their lives have become.

But the other reason for their absence was actually more strategic in nature. You don't become a high-flying CEO in Silicon Valley without having a plan. And so, the Northern California power couple had spent those two weeks strategizing.

What do they say to NuGenetix employees about the antidote they are working feverishly on?

What do they say to those same employees who are now wondering about the real reason behind the original drug?

What do they say to his investors about his unexpected and impromptu absence?

What do they say to Barry Adams when they see him again?

At least they don't have to say anything to Sam Carlos. They had concocted this plan on the hour-long drive from San Francisco back to Santa Clara. For the first ten or so minutes, they had been blindfolded. Actually, it was a bag over their heads. Same difference. They had no idea where they were driving away from. Once on Highway 101, however, the blindfolds had been removed. It gave them plenty of time to think, to talk. They had come up with the plan to head into Canada on that drive back to the valley, and the couple had made sure that Sammy – their driver – knew exactly what to say to his boss. A hundred-dollar bill as a tip ensured that much.

"Whoever it is, we know what to say," Cassy reminds him. "Open the door, babe."

With that, the CEO takes a deep breath, his eyes closed. Then another breath. When he opens his eyes, the professional has taken over. He glances through the peephole, nodding his head.

"Adams," he whispers, his eyes clear.

"Better now than later," she whispers in return, and he nods his head as he opens the door. "Lets get this over with."

"Councilman," he greets the duo outside his door, glancing at the large man who he doesn't recognize.

"Andrew," Councilman Adams replies, returning the greeting. "May we come in?"

"Certainly," Klein answers as he steps aside, granting access to the two men. Cassandra stands back toward the open room, her arms folded in front of her.

They have to play this just right. They saw Sam Carlos shoot Susan Adams. They watched the woman die. They watched her husband fall into his initial coma as a result of what he saw. What they don't know is what the Councilman remembers. Andrew Klein had been adamant about that. It's his drug. He knows how it is supposed to work. A traumatic experience, something truly frightening, can initiate the drug's actions. But will the subject remember everything up to that final second? That much he is unsure of.

"A little early for us to be getting together again, after last time, don't you think?" Cassandra asks, intentionally putting a little annoyance into her voice. It is important that they allow Barry Adams to tell them what he knows, what he remembers.

"Who is your friend?" Klein asks the Councilman.

As planned – or hoped – their ruse pays off, disarming the Councilman. He had come here thinking he would have the upper hand, that he would put the couple in a defensive position. That he has not done so surprises him.

"This is Rodney," Adams replies in answer to Andrew Klein's question. "Rodney is a good friend, closer than family."

"Hello Rodney," Klein greets him with an outstretched hand, again disarming the Councilman and his muscle. This isn't going as planned for one Barry Adams.

"Why are you here?" Cassandra asks again. It is part of their plan. Andy will play the gracious host, while she portrays the annoyed wife.

"I thought we had seen enough of each other after last time," she continues.

"Well, this is no way to greet a friend," Adams replies, trying a different approach.

"When did we become friends?" Cassandra spits with venom in her voice, then erupts.

"Listen, Mr. Councilman, we just got home," she begins. "Just this moment. You likely know that already. And you know why we got out of town. If it's all right with you, we wanted to put our last little get-together as far behind us as humanly possible!"

Rodney Jeffries takes a menacing step forward but is stopped by an outstretched arm of the Councilman, who is now rethinking his approach with the couple.

"Andrew, Mrs. Klein," he begins, "I think it is clear that we have a common enemy. I don't know where you went, but I understand you wanting to get away. I just need a few answers."

Andrew Klein has moved to the kitchen and has grabbed a few small glass tumblers. He places a bottle of bourbon underneath his arm and returns quickly to the living room. He sits down, placing the items on the coffee table in front of him, patting the sofa next to him for his wife.

"Where are my manners. Please, have a seat, gentlemen," Klein says, now playing the role of a bio-tech CEO hosting important visitors - again, just as planned. He begins pouring bourbon into each of the glasses.

Again, the Councilman and the undercover SFPD Captain are taken aback by these actions. Even Jeffries is now rethinking this.

"I will pass," Cassy tells the threesome, heading back to the bedroom.

"Babe, please stay," Klein tells her – just as rehearsed. He would play the professional, gracious as always. She would play the annoyed wife, angry with recent developments. It works perfectly. She returns as asked, and plops down onto the sofa next to him, once again folding her arms.

The three men pick up a tumbler each, and Klein initiates the movement for all three to click glasses.

"Now, you say you have questions," Klein begins. "Where do you want to start?"

"We start with my wife," Adams replies. "Susan. I am looking for her. I have been for two weeks now."

The cocoon of hundreds of butterflies suddenly explodes within Cassandra Klein's stomach, and it is only two solid weeks of planning and anticipating that allows her to maintain her composure. But his question answers the one question that she and Andrew Klein have had.

Would he remember his wife being murdered?

Evidently not.

"And why . . . and don't take this the wrong way, Councilman," Klein begins. "But why in the name of God would I . . . or Cassy . . . have any idea where your wife is?"

"Not exactly the type of thing you misplace," Cassy mutters under her breath. Her husband makes a mental note to ask his wife about her new and suddenly remarkable acting abilities.

"I don't understand your hostility, Mrs. Klein," Adams remarks after taking a long pull of the bourbon drink. "After all –"

He never finishes the sentence before the Silicon Valley CEO's wife erupts.

"You don't understand why I would be upset that the most notorious mobster in all of California accosted my husband and I, kidnapped me from this home, and Andy from his work? You don't understand why I would be upset that we get blindfolded, bags over our head like from some damn movie, and driven for who the fuck knows how long to who the fuck knows where, and get stuck in some dank, sweaty basement for all we know with these huge goons that make Mr. Muscle there look like a midget?" she continues, offering a parting glance at Rodney Jeffries.

"You don't understand why I would be upset that all of this happens because of something you did to some friend of San Francisco's worst nightmare . . . and somehow we are stuck in middle of whatever is happening between you and that nightmare of a man?"

"Mrs. Klein, I assure you that it was no picnic for me and . . . it was no fun on my end either," Adams remarks, almost pleading now. "If you will remember, all four of us were at the mercy of that madman! And afterwards, I wake up in my own house, in my own bed – with no memory of what happened except that you and Andrew were there. And Susan is gone."

"What do you mean gone?" Andrew asks, feigning interest.

"I mean gone," Adams replies. "I mean when I woke up, she wasn't there. I haven't seen her since then. No one has. It's like she has disappeared off the face of the earth," he continues, running his hands through his hair, a frantic look on his face.

No one notices Cassandra glance away momentarily. Thoughts and images of a large hole in Susan Adam's forehead, her body falling backward, while her husband utters a blood-curdling scream that Cassy knows will stay with her forever.

"Councilman . . . Barry, I wish we could help you," Klein begins. "We consider ourselves fortunate to have gotten out of there alive, and you and your wife should also."

"But where is she?" Adams asks. "Surely you saw something, you heard something while you were there."

Rodney Jeffries uses this as an opportunity to assert himself into the conversation, since things are not going anywhere near as planned. After all, he has been brought here as muscle. He decides that now is the time to flex those muscles.

"Look, folks, I don't mean to be rude," Jeffries tells the room at large as he stands, pulling himself to his full six feet and four inches. "But Mr. Adams here simply needs answers. Both of you were there. I find it hard to believe that neither of you heard anything, saw anything. You left for two weeks. That tells me you felt threatened. That tells me you know more than you are saying."

"Look, mister," Cassy replies, now standing with the larger man. "No one comes into our house and threatens us like . . . well, that's not exactly true, is it babe?" she says, lowering her voice and glancing at her husband.

Jeffries pulls his jacket back, showing the shoulder holster and the large weapon sheathed there. The effect works.

"What, are you threatening us now?" Andrew Klein asks, incredulous. "In our home?"

"Whatever I have to do," the larger man replies, now moving his hand toward the weapon. Without warning, Cassy Klein whimpers softly as her eyes roll backward into her head and falls backward toward the sofa. She bounces on the arm rest and rolls, landing face down on the floor in front of a stunned Barry Adams and Rodney Jeffries.

An exasperated Andrew Klein falls to his knees next to his wife – placing two fingers against his wife's neck, while a stunned Adams and Jeffries look on. Finding a pulse, the CEO turns an angry expression toward his guests.

"Well, I hope you're happy now, dammit!" Klein explodes. "Two weeks! Two fucking weeks down the drain, you idiot!"

"She . . . she was drugged, too?"

"Yes, you moron, she was drugged! Just like we saw Carlos drug you." Klein yells. "What part of accosted and kidnapped did you not understand?"

The unreal scene playing out in front of them unnerves the normally unflappable Councilman, who now is reconsidering the players in this deadly play.

"My apologies, Andrew," Adams remarks, placing a hand on the shoulder of Jeffries, who still stares down at the unconscious woman.

"The effects of the drug, Rodney," Adams tells him. "Any traumatic event, anything frightening will cause a relapse."

"I know that," Rodney remarks. "You told me. I just . . . I just didn't imagine it would look like that."

"Not a pretty picture, is it, dammit?" Klein mutters, now standing to his feet.

"Not at all, Andrew," Adams agrees. "I had no idea that . . . well, knowing Carlos, I should have known that there was no way you and your wife were there in that room with no consequences. She has been drugged. And my wife? I have no idea where she is. What he has done with her?"

"Well, the answer to that isn't here," Klein tells him. Then he points down at his wife, continuing.

"And now you can see for yourself why Cassy and I had to get away. To prevent something just like this from happening. Do you realize that when she wakes up – she won't remember anything since he drugged her!? She won't remember anything over the past couple of weeks. Our trip away. Our little visit to Carlos' hideaway dungeon. Nothing!"

"Perhaps we should get going," Rodney tells the Councilman. "I don't think we're going to learn anything else here."

"Agreed, my friend," Adams tells him, before turning back to Klein. "Again, my most sincere apologies Andrew. I had no idea that . . . well, you have your journey. I have mine. And mine must take me to find my wife. You have _your_ wife. Be happy with that."

The Councilman and Rodney Jeffries make their way to the door, and silently leave the home. The two mean hear an anguished cry leave the mouth of Andrew Klein behind the door they have just closed.

"Poor bastard," Jeffries remarks.

"True," Adams tells him. "But as I said, at least his wife is there. And I'm sure Andrew's team is fast at work on an antidote now that his wife has been injected as well."

Back in the Klein home, Andrew is on his knees, cradling his wife's head, stroking her lovingly.

"Hurry and come back to me, babe," he tells her, tears welling up in his eyes. He knows that when she awakens she will be confused. Her last memory will be of that morning a couple of weeks ago back in his office at NuGenetix, when Carlos dosed her.

The sudden smile on her face, as her right hand move up to his face, stroking his cheek hurls the man backwards into the sofa.

"My God, Cassy!" he whispers loudly, glancing back at the closed front door, praying no one comes back inside.

"You were faking?" he asks, his mind only now wrapping itself around her unplanned 'relapse'.

"When that hulk of a man opened his jacket and I saw the gun, I thought things were going to get dicey," she smiles, still lying on the floor, whispering herself.

"I figured now was as good a time as any to show Mr. Adams that he wasn't the only one permanently impacted by our visit with Sam," she tells him. "It worked. His wife is dead – but he doesn't remember. He just thinks she is gone. But knowing that I – like him – was drugged . . . well, it was a longshot, and it worked."

"Yeah, it did," he tells her, a single tear dropping on her cheek. "But yours isn't permanent, Cassy. I promise you that. You know the team is working hard on an –"

"Oh baby," she smiles again, interrupting his apologies. "Take me back to our bedroom and help me recover properly. And afterward, we can make plans to reach out to one Richard Castle in the morning, as planned."

The CEO smiles, placing his hands underneath his wife and lifting them both off the ground. Cradling her in his arms, he carries her to their bedroom, and kicks the door closed with his foot.

.

**A/N:** Well, I don't know about many of you, but here in Dallas, Texas we are under house isolation because of the coronavirus. We live in interesting times. I'm going to use this time to write, as my mind is now on overload with ideas and possibilities. None of this is fun, but I encourage/ask all of you to make the most of this. God didn't cause this, but He certainly is allowing this. Just like He allowed me to have cancer – and survive cancer. A real bitch of a journey, but I can't tell you how much good has come out of that. In the same way, although what is happening is horrible – we can try and make something great out of this. For many of us, it is a chance to reconnect with that spouse, reconnect with those kids. For many of us it is a chance to video call distant friends and relatives that we have only texted in recent times. And for my wife and I, honestly, it is a chance to spend nights in the hot tub with a margarita, a glass of Moscato (her) or a glass of rum (me). Yeah this sucks. And that's putting it nicely – but let's make something good come from this. And for God's sake, stay healthy, stay smart, and let's not panic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Blank: Chapter 4**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

_**Monday, 9:17 p.m. on April 16, 2012 At Cynthia Romaine's Residence in Daly City**_

The door to the modest two-story flat is open as Richard Castle and Kate Beckett arrive at the Romaine's residence. True to its almost stereotypical reputation, the fog is heavy and rolling in misty billows through the suburban city just south of San Francisco proper.

"Knock! Knock!" Kate bellows in her loud, official voice as the couple walk inside. Castle merely smiles, again marveling at the switch that she seems to flip so easily and casually.

"Who's there?"

"That would be Jennifer, I am guessing?" Castle remarks as he walks behind, following closely behind.

"That would be me," Detective Jennifer Blackard replies. "And thanks for being such spoilsports for not playing along."

"Must be bad," Kate whispers back to Castle, who simply nods his head with a grunt. He's been around enough dead body drops to know that, all too often, humor is the weapon police officers and detectives use to sterilize a scene, to desensitize themselves to atrocities.

"Not the most pleasant view, Rick," Jennifer warns. Castle frowns, as the detective does not realize that her simple and innocent warning is exactly what the ex-author had been railing about in the car less than half an hour ago.

"I'm sure I've seen worse," he remarks, the bitterness easily heard in his voice. It causes a raised eyebrow from the SFPD detective, who glances questioningly at her old college friend. Kate merely shakes her head, mouthing the word "later".

Sure enough, Castle quickly realizes that Jennifer was not kidding, and mentally offers the woman a silent apology. Whatever he and Kate were expecting when they walked in, it was certainly not something on this scale of violence. Back in New York City, both he and Beckett had seen some interesting situations. But few as . . . angry as this.

"Okay, I take that back," Castle mutters to Kate, who stands beside him. On the floor in the living room next to the window is one very dead Jeremy Romaines, and it is definitely one of the bloodiest scenes either have walked into.

"Wow," is all that Kate can manage, as she looks at the empty right eye socket of the dead man, along with the massive caved-in section on the right side of his head. Dried blood is caked on his lips, throughout his mouth. At a closer look, she notices the broken teeth, and missing teeth from the victim. Shaking her head, she glances at Castle quickly before kneeling down next to Detective Blackard, who is squatting beside the body.

"What's your take on this?" Kate asks.

"Well, whatever happened, Mrs. Romaines must have just snapped," Detective Blackard replies. "I mean, Damn! This isn't the result of one or two swings of the bat – and yes, it was a bat. That one over there," she continues.

"Nothing was moved?" Kate asks Ron as she glances at the murder weapon, bloody and cracked.

"Nope, just as I found it," he assures the trio. "I already told that to the detective."

"Okay, thanks Ron," Kate nods. "I agree. There is a lot of passion in this murder."

"Far too many swings to cause this damage," Castle half whispers. "This goes beyond just protecting oneself. This is . . . this is too much."

"One leg is broken also," Jennifer remarks. "You can see the odd angle."

"Crime of passion, indeed," Kate agrees. "I'm not sure I like what this might mean, to be honest, Rick."

Castle simply nods his head, as he closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath as he tries to clear his head of the offending image below. Quickly realizing that trying to ignore things – in fact – is not the best course of action for him, he reopens his eyes, almost staring through the body below. And yeah, he is starting to wonder also. Wonder if this is the action of a battered woman who feared for her life? Or is this something else entirely.

"Did you call the police?" he asks. "I know we wanted Jennifer to take the first look, but –"

"SFPD should be minutes away," Jennifer replies. "I'm actually surprised you beat them. I called them once I got here."

"Good, good," Castle nods, now walking around the body to the bloody bat lying next to the sofa. He glances back at the body, then around the room before seeing what he was looking for. Kate has followed his eyes and knows what he has seen.

"Wide blood splatter into the curtains, and that's it," she remarks. "The rest is spread across the floor, as you can see."

"Almost as if he was hit while lying on the ground," Jennifer agrees.

"No bloody footprints," Castle notices. "This is a lot of blood around the body, yet no trace of any blood on a footprint leaving the body."

"What are you thinking, Rick?" Jennifer asks.

"I don't know," he answers. "Not yet. Just making an observation."

"Thinking about if the body was moved? Staged perhaps?" Kate wonders aloud.

"I've been wondering the same thing," Jennifer adds. "The blood splatter on the curtain is . . . what is the word I am looking for –"

"Too uniform," Castle observes.

"Right, right," Hennifer agrees. "Too uniform."

"And too low," Kate comments.

"Agree," Jennifer remarks. "If I am standing and someone hits me with a baseball bat, the blood splatter should be relatively close to my height."

"And Jeremy here is . . . what do you think . . . hard to tell with him lying here on the ground," Castle adds. "But he's at least six feet I would guess."

"Yet the blood spots are down here, maybe eighteen to twenty-four inches off the ground," Jennifer comments."

Kate rises off the ground from her squatting position, stretching her legs. She glances over at the curtain again, and then around the floor of the room.

"So, let's put this together," Kate announces to the room at large. "We have two options here. Option one, Jeremy is standing, is knocked down to the ground. Then most of the damage is done while he is on the ground."

"Option two," Jennifer Blackard continues, "Jeremy was already on the ground in the first place, perhaps sitting or kneeling when the first blow was struck."

"That would better explain the blood splatter on the curtain at such a low height," Kate agrees.

"There is a third option," Castle interrupts, as he walks toward the front door. He can hear the SFPD siren arriving in the driveway."

"The third option," he continues, "is that Jeremy was killed somewhere else, and then the body was staged here. The blood splatter manually distributed along the curtain."

The group is silent, almost by silent agreement as the first of San Francisco's Finest enters the home. Even though she is a cop, a detective, Blackard still is harboring deep trust issues with her colleagues on the force – particularly since the whole debacle on Angel Island . . . knowing that people on the force knew what was happening, yet stayed quiet.

Or worse, profited from the whole sordid affair.

Richard Castle finds himself mentally departing from the room, from the bloody scene. In his mind, he and the ex-detective are standing along the wall, beachside on the Pacific Ocean, just down the walkway from the iconic Cliff House where he plans on permanently cementing the relationship that began over four years ago. He almost feels guilty using such an intimate and personal moment as a distraction, as a means of escaping the scene in front of them.

Almost.

"Seen enough?" Kate asks, not knowing what is going on in his head, but astute enough to realize it is probably time to get the man she loves out of there.

"More than enough," he comments, nodding toward Jennifer.

"We will be outside," Kate tells her friend, knowing she needs to remain on the scene for a bit longer. Kate, Castle and Ron Daniels quickly take their leave, walking out of the house and to the street where Castle's car is parked. There they begin their debrief.

"Questions," Kate announces to the pair of men.

"Where is Cynthia Romaines?" Castle asks, now back in the moment. "That's what is most important to me. She placed a call to our complex. We get here and there is a violent scene straight out of a mob movie . . ."

"But no Cynthia," Daniels adds, inserting himself into the conversation once again. "And she is the reason I am here."

"She's the reason we _all_ are here," Kate agrees. "So, for now, theories regarding what happened inside notwithstanding, finding Mrs. Romaines is our top priority. Jennifer can handle whatever happened in there."

"But what if she's involved with . . . how did you say it . . . whatever happened in there?" Daniels asks.

"We cross that bridge if and when it presents itself," Castle tells the them. "Hopefully, that won't be the case."

.

_**Still Monday Night, 9:41 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Santa Clara residence of NuGenetix CEO Andrew Klein**_

"Well, that was fun," Cassandra Klein smiles, as she allows the hot water from the oversized shower beat down on her face, her long hair falling far below her shoulders toward her lower back.

"My apologies for being so quick tonight," Andrew Klein begins, as he leans over the left-most of the his and her sinks in the large master bathroom, placing toothpaste on his toothbrush.

"Never apologize for that, baby," Cassandra tells him. "That was pure adrenaline tonight. And who can blame us, for crying out loud."

"Do you realize that madman expected us to give up information on Sam Carlos?" the CEO laughs aloud, as he stuffs the motorized toothbrush into his mouth.

"No, babe," Cassandra tells him, as she cracks open the glass shower door so he can hear her more clearly.

"He wasn't asking us to give up information on Sam," she argues. "He was asking us to join him in some crusade against Sam."

That brings the toothbrush out of Klein's mouth, for a moment, He spits out excess water and paste, turning the brush off.

"You can't be serious," he asks.

"As a heart attack," she tells him, closing the glass door once again, and sticking her full head under the shower head.

"Think about it," she continues, now almost shouting so he can hear over the rushing shower waters. "His wife is dead. We know that. But_ he_ doesn't know that. It was very clear that he thinks she is alive. That is has not even occurred to him that she might be dead."

"Wait a minute," Klein interrupts. "That doesn't make any sense. Of course he should –"

"No babe," she interrupts him, in turn. "You and I saw her die. You and I saw Sam murder her. He did it as an example. For you and I. So of course you and I would think it obvious that she is dead. Because we saw her die. But the Councilman doesn't remember that."

"The drug," Klein comments, nodding his head.'

"Yes, the drug," she agrees. "All the Councilman knows is that he was drugged, you and I were there, he's alive, you and I are alive . . ."

She lets the statement hang in the air for a few seconds.

"And his wife is missing," Klein completes her train of thought.

"There is nothing that indicates to him that his wife is dead," Cassandra speaks again, raising her voice above the shower. "And God help us, Andy, I think that is what Sam wanted."

Her statement causes the CEO to pause and wonder for a few seconds, before a shiver rolls down his spine. Yeah, that would make sense. It is the type of mental guerilla warfare the man is known for. It is the type of mental warfare Sam Carlos easily demonstrated to both Andrew and Cassandra.

"You think he wants to torture Barry with this," he comments. It is a statement, not a question.

"Babe," she responds, "he drugged me – _me_, an old friend of his – just to give you, hell, what would you call it –"

"Proper motivation is how he put it," Andrew answers for her.

"And you remember what Sam said, what he told all of us back at that house of horrors," she continues, shuddering against a chill despite the rain of hot water on her back. "He told us that it was personal."

"Something about Richard Castle being drugged was personal to him," Klein agrees. "Which is why we have to see Mr. Castle tomorrow."

"Have you called him yet?" Cassandra asks. "I don't know if it is a good idea just to show up there at his place."

"No, babe, that is exactly what we are going to do," Klein tells his wife. "After thinking more about it, I realized that we don't know what Sam has told Castle. We don't know if Sam told Castle that it was Barry who was behind the drugging. We don't know if Castle knows that it was my drug."

Her silence from the shower prompts him to continue. He knows she has heard him and is simply processing his words. And he has learned over time to trust his wife's instincts.

"Right now all we know for certain is that Richard Castle knows us as investors in his project out across the bay," he continues. "So you and I showing up as investors interested in our investment is a very plausible reason for an impromptu visit."

"And if Mr. Castle does know that it was your drug?" Cassy asks aloud.

"Well, then if he knows that much, do you really think he would be all that excited to meet me?" Klein asks. "And if he is looking forward to meeting me, knowing it was my drug, and knowing the little damn army he has out there, do you want to walk into that?"

"Good point," Cassandra agrees. "What was it? Fifteen, twenty dead bodies out at his complex, spread out across the grounds?

"_Dead _bodies, babe," he emphasizes. "Not injured bodies. Not maimed or unconscious bodies. They took no prisoners out there."

"They certainly do play for keeps," she agrees once again.

"So no, I don't want to give those people any heads-up that we might be coming," he continues. "Hell, I have to keep convincing myself that going out there to meet the man isn't a monumentally stupid idea in the first place."

"Oh, so you ravage my body and then call me stupid," she chuckles as she opens and closes the glass door once again.

"Far from it, Cassy," he smiles with her. "And it's not _you_ he would have a hard on for. That would be me."

"Still," she tells him as she turns the shower water off.

"Leave it on please, babe," he tells her, and nods his head as she turns the water back on. She opens the door once again, reaching out for a large cardinal red towel that hangs next to the shower stall. She quickly wraps it around her body, allowing her damp hair to stay fallen.

"Still," she continues as he moves past her, slapping her on the bottom as he steps toward the shower stall. "Going to Mr. Castle and apologizing for all of this is the right thing to do for two reasons – as we have already discussed."

"It's the right thing to do, and we don't need any negative publicity," he counts off the first reason.

"And if he and Sam are as tight as Sam made it appear," Cassandra continues, "then we can assume that our apology to Mr. Castle will make it back to Sam."

"And we don't need that psycho on our tails," Andrew hollers over the shower waters.

"When we were back there . . . wherever we were," he continues, "Sam accused the Councilman and his wife of kidnapping all of those poor women. He held them responsible. He held Susan responsible. And we saw what happened to her. And now he has Barry chasing ghosts that he doesn't realize are ghosts."

"Which is why we can never run afoul of Sam over the Councilman," she concludes the conversation. "And tomorrow is our chance to tell Sam – through Mr. Castle – that he has nothing to worry about from us."

.

_**Still Monday Night, Now 9:55 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

The night fog that blankets the city across the bridge is a majestic sight from the Sausalito side of the Golden Gate Bridge. The fog has already passed this area, and now forms a picturesque view from this side of the bay. However, at the complex deep into the mountains and wooded area, a small layer of fog still mists along the grounds, giving a foreboding feeling to the expanse of acreage.

A pair of solitary headlights breaks through in the distance from the front gate, where Marcus Duncan has been sitting. He has another two hours for this shift before he will go and get some much-needed shut-eye. The headlights bounce against the fog, distorting the distance. He steps out of the small security building and walks toward the lowered gate, his right hand caressing his holster subconsciously.

A few seconds later, he makes out the form and color of the yellow taxi cab which pulls up to a stop at the gate. Quickly, a haggard-looking red-head steps out of the car. The first thing he notices is that the woman is barefoot. She wears a pair of blue jeans and a brown cashmere pullover sweater. Even in the dark, there is the unmistakable smear of darkness – likely blood – across the left shoulder of the sweater. A growing bruise under the eye reminds Marcus exactly why this facility is here.

"I was going to ask if I can help you," Marcus begins, "but I see that would be a dumb question."

"I am Cynthia Romaines," the redhead tells him softly, as she stumbles toward the security man. He catches her as she succumbs to the events of the night.

.

**A/N:** I hope everyone is doing well in their quarantines, wherever you are. I beg you to stay safe, take this threat seriously. I dare say that every one of us will likely know – personally – of someone who does not make it through this. That has already occurred here. I keep writing to keep all of us – myself included – distracted from the invisible violence. Hug your loved ones. They are our treasures, and what a great time to tell them this.


	5. Chapter 5

**Blank: Chapter 5**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

_**Still Monday Night, Now 10:37 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

The ride back to the Castle's Complex has been even faster than the trip to the Romaines' home in Daly City. Sure, there had been a sense of urgency in getting to the site of whatever had happened to Cynthia Romaines, but that sense or urgency pales in comparison to the nervous energy that has now exploded in the speeding Ferrari as it makes its way back across the bridge. Once Marcus Duncan had called to inform Castle that Mrs. Romaines was – in fact – now safely at the complex, it brought about a chain reaction of possibilities in the minds of the author and the ex-detective.

None of them are good.

"The brake is that little foot object to the left of the accelerator, babe," Kate Beckett tells him, knowing she is wasting her breath. "Slow down a bit, Rick."

His grunt is the only response she gets, and she sees in his eyes that he is on autopilot. They have made this trip across the bridge so many times, he can do this in his sleep. And the man is definitely distracted right now.

"You've got the most experienced and intimidating security team in the state of California," she reminds him. "Whatever may be going on, they can handle."

"True," he tells her for the second time during this rapid descent back to the complex. "But that is when they know what to expect, when they know that something is up. Right now, all they know is that there is a new guest at the facility. One who called ahead. There is no reason for them to suspect –"

"I know that babe," she reminds him. "And I have tried calling Marcus back, but –"

"But nothing," he interrupts. "The fact that Marcus isn't answering . . . the fact that no one seems to be answering is what worries me."

Both still have the image of a very dead and clearly bludgeoned Jeremy Romaines in their heads. It is a vision that is difficult to forget, to delete, try as they may. Something isn't right about Mrs. Romaines, about her call, about her absence.

About the horror show she left behind in her home. Perhaps she is the victim that she has made herself to appear. Or perhaps she is something else entirely. The fact that neither Castle or Beckett – with their vast experience together – can put their finger on it is precisely what bothers both of them.

"Try again," he asks her. "Please."

Kate punches the number once again for Marcus Duncan. It rings three times, and each ring deepens the frowns on both faces in the car. Angrily, she disconnects the call and punches the pre-dial for the complex itself. It's late, so no one is manning the phones in the administration area. But all after-hours calls ring at the security gate, and then roll over to Samantha's phone. If no one answers, then Richard Castle himself is the final target for the incoming call.

Sure enough, his phone begins to ring – bringing a groan to both of the car's passengers.

"This can't be good," she exclaims, speaking what both are thinking.

Subconsciously, he puts a little extra pressure on the accelerator, and the speedster picks up speed appreciably. This time, Kate says nothing. She understands the urgency.

"We just can't catch a break," he mutters aloud.

"Well, babe," she snickers, "you didn't exactly pick the profession that encourages a lot of breaks. Everything you have done out here is because some people don't catch a break. You're their break."

He squeezes her hand, a small smile forming on his lips. It is a brief respite, as the end of the bridge is now in sight. At this speed, they should be at the complex in just under fifteen minutes. For another minute the couple is quiet. The cool night wind blows beautifully through Kate's hair as they make the turns on the winding highway, before she speaks again.

"It's either exactly as she indicated – there was an altercation and she defended herself . . . or . . ."

"Or," Castle continues, taking her thoughts further, "or this is a ruse to allow someone to get inside our complex, to do our guests harm."

"We've seen that before," she tells him, "and the team was more than up to the task, babe."

"Again – for the third time – the team was completely prepared that time," he reminds her. She does not take his agitation personally. She is just as worried as he is.

"Still," she remarks, and then thinks better of it. She is silent for a few more seconds before bringing a chuckle to both of their lips.

"Can't this thing go any faster?" she asks.

"Your wish is my command, m'lady," he smiles as he guns the roadster even faster.

"Promises, promises," she tells him.

Still smiling, he offers a silent prayer to the heavens, hoping that his recently carefully-laid plans for the weekend proposal aren't going up in smoke. His face turns into a painting of determination, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter, as he takes the exit to the off-road leading back to the complex from the highway.

"Almost there," he whispers aloud.

"Hurry, babe," she replies, and he merely nods his head.

.

_**Still Monday Night, Now 10:51 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at Detective Jennifer Blackard's Mission District Residence**_

She shuts the door, and immediately kicks off the flats from her feet into the waiting bin at the door before turning her attention towards the television in the living room. Grabbing the remote control, she turns the volume down. It is habit that forces her to leave her television on while she is away from the house at night. Habit from experience that forces her to create an illusion that someone is still at home while she is gone.

Another nine minutes and the local nightly news will be coming on. She frowns against the thought, knowing that rarely – if ever – is there good news on the nightly broadcast.

Making her way to the kitchen, she opens the freezer and retrieves a chicken pot pie, and smiles. Pot pies became a favorite – almost a culinary staple of the Stanford dormitory diet – for she and Kate Beckett back during their college days. She wonders briefly if her recently found best friend still has this particular . . . taste.

Opening the top of the package, she tears away the perforated section and places the frozen pie into the microwave oven, enters six minutes for the time, and hits START.

The familiar – and somehow – comforting sound of the microwave brings an unexplainable calm to the detective. She has found that normalcy – normal sounds, normal sights and tastes – often help wash away the stench of a gruesome crime scene. And yeah, tonight, she needs a little normalcy.

As if a sign from the universe, her cell phone beeps, indicating an incoming message. She walks to the kitchen island where she had placed the phone, and glances at the ID of the sender, and smiles again. A goodnight message from Sam Carlos.

"Hello Sam," she speaks aloud to the phone, as she reads his text.

_SAM: "A good day for you, I hope?" _

Each night, each and every night since the events at the Chinese Hospital in Chinatown, Sam has left her a morning message and an evening message. Nothing in between. Both know she is busy with her policework, and he is busy with . . . well, he is just busy. They never discuss his dealings. Almost by an unspoken agreement. Until tonight. She decides to throw a wrench his way – if just for giggles than for any specific reason.

_JENNIFER: "Fine until tonight. How about you? Any missing bodies I should know about?" _

She adds a smiley face at the end to soften the question. But in truth, their arms-length friendship is beginning to frustrate the detective, who – damn her – wants more. He does, too. He hasn't said as much, but she's a woman. And she's not stupid. She has eyes. And ears.

And that intuition.

She can tell that he has read the message, and her smile and relaxed nature slowly fade with every passing minute that he doesn't respond. Perhaps she has pushed too far, too quickly. Suddenly, her phone rings. It is his caller ID. She smiles. She wanted different. This is different. Since the event, they have not spoken, but have shared many of those daily texts. This, however, is the first phone call.

Taking a deep breath, gathering her thoughts, she lets it ring twice more before answering.

"Hey, too much?" she asks in greeting.

"Well, it was unexpected, let's just say that," he replies in greeting. "How are you, Detective?"

"Oh, it is detective again?" she comments questioningly. "I'm surprised at the phone call."

"I'm surprised at your question," he counters easily. "It is good to hear your voice. Which sounds a bit disturbed, if I may say so myself."

"My night was fairly gruesome," she offers by was of explanation. "I hope yours was decidedly better."

"A bad body drop?" he asks, using police terminology.

"Learned something from Willie, I see," she replies with a chuckle. "How is Mr. Crockett?"

"She wants to know how you are doing, my friend," she hears him comment to Willie Crockett. It forces her to glance at her watch again. Almost eleven o'clock and he is still with Willie. Still on the job, as it were. Not a good omen for someone, no doubt.

"Ah, so you are still at work," she remarks.

"My hours are . . . unpredictable," he tells her, offering nothing else.

"Indeed," she smiles. "So, Sam . . . how long are we going to do this?"

"This little dance of ours?" he asks.

"Yes, if you can call this dancing," she tells him. He is quiet for a few seconds. Again, she wonders if she has pushed too hard before he finally answers.

"Three years, Jennifer," he begins, dropping her title in favor of her first name. She catches her breath, knowing that a long-overdue conversation has finally arrived.

"Three years since our last conversation disintegrated into a shouting match that ended with you telling me . . . and I quote, 'I will see you again when hell freezes over!'" he reminds her. He can hear her groan into the phone while Willie Crockett chuckles at the same time.

"So, you will forgive me, Jennifer," he continues, "if I choose to take things a bit more cautiously with you."

"Point taken," she gives him. "Probably not my finest moment."

"Nor mine, for provoking you as such," he tells her. "But understand, for me – dancing with you from a distance is vastly preferable than having no contact at all for another three years. Another thing I have Mr. Castle and Katie to thank for."

"Me, too," she agrees, then changes the subject. "Seriously though, how are you, Sam? These twice a day texts have been nice – I actually look forward to them –"

"As do I," he admits.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

"That's a difficult question to answer, Jennifer," he replies, glancing at his friend who simply looks away, a toothpick dangling from his mouth. The gagged man lying on the floor stares at the duo with wide, frightened eyes, knowing that he is receiving a two or three-minute reprieve from a hard death . . . whenever this phone call ends.

"Then I wasn't that far off the mark?" she comments, realizing that business is being conducted on the other end of the phone. And if Willie is there at this time of night, she probably doesn't want to know what is going on. But the cop in her presses her onward.

"Is it necessary?" she asks. "It's your business, Sam. I don't want you running away from me at a thousand miles an hour. Not now that we have reconnected. But is it necessary, tonight?"

His silence lets her know he is thinking, he is considering her question. That realization by itself shocks her.

"Sam?" she asks again, now wondering if he has disconnected the call.

"I'm here, Jennifer," he replies. He sounds different. She can tell. More importantly, the large black man standing next to him can tell, and Willie Crockett raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"I will have to call you back," Sam Carlos tells her. "Or I will text you. But I promise, you will hear from me again tonight. If that's all right."

"More than all right, Sam," she tells him. Before she can speak again, she knows for certain that he has gone. The line is quiet, and sure enough, a glance at her phone screen tells her the call has ended.

In the old art warehouse down on Fisherman's wharf just across from Ghiradelli Square, Sam Carlos glances down at the gagged man once again. The man's eyes widen even more so in fear, tears now forming and quickly running down his cheeks. The frightened quarry closes his eyes, not wanting to see the end that is coming.

Nodding at a surprised Willie Crockett, Carlos gestures with his hands telling his right-hand man to lift the prisoner to his feet. As always, Crockett merely does as he is told.

The man can barely stand on wobbly and shaking legs that threaten to give out any moment now. Once again, he closes his eyes against the coming onslaught.

That never comes.

"Mr. Baker," Carlos begins, "I am going to give you something that you don't deserve. Something I have not given to someone in . . . oh, I don't know . . . how long has it been, Willie?"

"I would tend to say 'Never,' sir," Crockett admits.

"Yes, I believe you are accurate, my friend," Carlos remarks. "I am going to give you to something I have never given anyone before. A second chance."

Eddie Baker runs the largest prostitution ring in North Beach. His apartment building houses over thirty women who pay rent, live there, and work there. It is a sweet gig, as no one has been able to prove anything dirty about the building. Sure, the police suspect what is going on there. Plenty of informants have given them enough information.

The women live in the apartments and receive customers there. However, since it is there home, the police have been powerless. If caught, they are simply young women who are hosting friends. If sex is being had in their own home, well . . . that's no crime. And if money is exchanging hands, it cannot be proven. Because it is no crime for a woman to have exorbitant amounts of cash in their own home, either.

Sure, his business saw a lengthy hit earlier in the year, due to some of his key customers taking their money out to Angel Island for that ill-fated endeavor. And those clients who weren't caught up in the raid on the island over a month ago have slowly returned to the fold. Business has been good. Life had returned to normal.

Until tonight, when for some reason, Sam Carlos had decided that Eddie's little gig was up.

"So, here is the deal I am offering you, Eddie," Carlos continues. "May I call you Eddie? I think that is a small allowance on your part, given the deal I am going to offer you."

With that, Willie Crockett removes the gag from the mouth of the black man and cuts the bonds on his hands with a single swipe of a massive knife. Eddie Baker finds himself clinching so as not to relieve himself right here on the spot.

"Leave," Carlos tells him. "Go home, gather whatever belongings you wish, but leave. You have twenty-four hours. And not a minute beyond that. Las Vegas is a good town for a man with your talents. Or Southern California. I really don't care. But I want you out of my city. Away from my women."

It matters not to Sam Carlos that the women of Eddie Baker's house of fun are there by choice. It matters not to him that they have chosen this line of work, this type of life. For Carlos, his hatred of prostitution often leads him to irrational logic. Not that anyone, save Willie Crockett, will ever dare point that out to him.

"Thank . . . Thank you, Mr. Carlos," Baker manages to say, his voice breaking with emotion. In truth, Baker has never thought of what he was doing as all that bad. He didn't hit his women. He didn't abuse them. Sure, he charged rent and took a big chunk of their money, but no one had ever complained before.

Until tonight.

Without another word, Sam Carlos and Willie Crockett walk away, leaving the warehouse – and Eddie Baker standing in it. Neither Carlos or Crockett have even the slightest concern that Baker will disclose this location or say anything at all to anyone. He will do as he was told. He will disappear.

Carlos and Crockett climb into the black SUV, Crockett in the driver's seat, and Carlos – surprisingly – takes the passenger seat next to him as opposed to the back seat.

"Still on with Phase two of the plan, sir?" Crockett asks.

"Of course, my friend," Carlos replies. "Nothing has changed on that front."

Willie Crockett puts the vehicle in gear and pulls away from the curb. He pulls up to Bay Street and hangs a left. Their next stop is a five-story complex on the edge of North Beach, as planned. Both men are quiet for the next couple of minutes, driving silently until Carlos himself breaks the silence.

"You must think I am going soft," Carlos tells his friend, not looking at him. He just stares out the window at the city that passes them by. The city that he loves.

"Not at all," Crockett replies, immediately. Carlos glances at the large black man, questioning his thoughts.

"I am surprised," Carlos continues. "I think that Jennifer makes me weak."

"No," Crockett replies again. "She makes you human."

Carlos simply nods his head, turning away again.

"By the way, human is a good thing," Crockett reminds him.

Both men are silent again for the next few minutes until they reach North Beach Crockett pulls the vehicle to a stop, and both men exit the SUV quietly. Crockett goes to the trunk, retrieving the large container, while Carlos simply stands there, staring out at the city with his hands in his pocket. The two men walk silently to the building and enter in, taking the elevator to the top floor. Once there, they enter into a dark room. They don't bother to turn the lights on.

Crockett places the container on the ground while Sam Carlos walks to the window and slides the window open. Crockett takes a burner phone out from his pocket and is ready to place the call when Carlos interrupts him.

"Thank you, my friend," Carlos tells him. Crockett merely smiles and nods his head as he continues dialing the number.

Dave Griffin answers the phone on the second ring. The security man for Eddie Baker's little whorehouse glances at his watch. It is late for a phone call that isn't coming from his boss. He doesn't recognize this number.

"This is Dave," Griffin answers.

"There is a bomb in the building," Crockett tells the security guard. "It is timed to go off in ten minutes. You have been warned."

Crockett hangs up. He has done his part. He walks to the window where his boss stands, looking out over the city. Both men can clearly see Eddie Baker's building some two hundred yards down the road and one street over. Well within range.

As if synchronized, both men reach for binoculars that sit on the window ledge. They glance down the street, waiting to see the mass exodus from the building. Crockett checks his watch and starts the stopwatch on the wrist-held device.

"Ten minutes and counting," he tells Carlos, who merely nods his head.

"So, you think human is a good thing, for a man in my position," Carlos asks. It is a statement, but a question as well.

"I do," Crockett tells him, and grows silent. The large man knows that sometimes – especially with Sam Carlos – fewer words speak louder than a sermon.

"I fear ruining her," Carlos tells him.

"She is stronger than that, and you know it, boss," is the answer from Crockett. Both men grow quiet again. Crockett checks his watch.

"Seven minutes," he tells Carlos.

"I would put her in danger," Carlos argues. "There are many enemies I have who would not dare come against me but would attack me through her."

Crockett is quiet for a few seconds, before responding with a smile.

"Your superhero complex aside," Crockett begins, "you aren't Superman and she isn't Lois Lane. You're reaching for straws now."

"But what if she is my kryptonite," Carlos asks. He appreciates the silence from his friend, knowing that Willie Crockett is considering his next words carefully.

"Perhaps men like us need a kryptonite," Crockett tells him. Carlos stares at his friend for a few seconds before nodding his head.

"Perhaps," he agrees.

"Five minutes," Crockett tells him. Both men – again – simultaneously lift their binoculars. Both men smile as they watch the unplanned exodus of hastily-dressed adults pouring out into the streets. As planned, Crockett dials 911 on his phone. One ring and he has his answer.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"There is getting ready to be a fire in the North Beach area," Crockett tells the operator. Carlos can barely stifle a small laugh, knowing what has to be going through the mind of the 911 operator. He listens as Crockett gives the woman the address of the building in question and then hangs up.

"Four minutes" he tells Carlos.

Both men are silent once again. It is one of the things that Carlos has always liked about Willie Crockett. The man doesn't need idle banter. Their silence is comfortable. It allows Carlos to think, to plan, to adjust his plans. He pulls the binoculars to his eyes again, and sees people still coming out.

"Time?" he asks Crockett.

"Two minutes, twenty seconds," Crockett tells him after checking his watch. With that, he bends down to open the container, and retrieves the two-piece rocket launcher. He quickly puts the weapon together, as Carlos hands him the first rocket as his watch beeps that the timer has completed its countdown.

"Think they are all out?" Crockett asks.

"They had ten minutes," Carlos tells him. "Anyone not out by now is not my problem."

Crockett chuckles, spitting out his trademark toothpick to the ground below out the window before placing the rocket launcher on his shoulder.

"Fire in the hole" Crockett smiles, as the weapon fires the first rocket. Some thirty to forty feet away from the window, the rocket ignites and within an eye blink crashes into the top floor of the building down the road across the street. The explosion rocks the neighborhood, flattening all of the scantily-clad people in the street who have rushed out.

Immediately Sam Carlos loads the second rocket into the launcher, and seconds later, the second bird is loosed, exploding into the lower floor of Eddie Baker's building.

Both men immediately go to work, with Crockett taking the weapon apart as Sam Carlos closes the window and pulls the curtain. Both men remove the gloves that they have been wearing since the interrogation of Eddie Baker. No prints will be left.

"Well, its been a 50-50 day for Eddie," Crockett muses aloud. "Lost a building, gained a life."

"He got the better end of that deal," Carlos agrees. "Let's get out of here."

.

_**Still Monday Night, Now 11:01 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

Richard Castle and Kate Beckett quickly jump out of the parked Ferrari, both sprinting toward the front door of the administration building. No one at the front gate. That's a problem. Marcus knows better. If he has left the front gate unmanned, then that means something bad is going on inside.

"Hello!" Castle shouts out as he enters the building behind Kate. The lights are on. Things seem to be fine. Until Marcus Duncan's head pops out the door down the hall.

"Down here, quick!" he shouts, then disappears back inside the room. When Castle and Kate get there, looking in, his heart sinks.

Dr. Samantha Peraza lies on the floor, with Dawn kneeling by her side. About four feet away, lying on the ground unconscious, is a red-headed woman whose hands are – for some reason – restrained with plastic cuffs.

"What happened here?" Kate asks the room at large.

.

**A/N:** Happy Easter and Passover weekend, my friends. Stay safe and keep the faith. We will get through this.


	6. Chapter 6

**Blank: Chapter 6**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

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_**Still Monday Night, Now 11:04 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

Without thinking, Richard Castle is taking a knee at the doctor's side, next to Dawn Harrison. Seeing both women – Dr. Peraza and who he can only assume is Cynthia Romaines – his choice was easy, and instantaneous. He quickly moved to his old friend, while Kate took that as her cue to go toward Marcus Duncan and the unconscious woman.

"What in the world happened here?" both ask.

Castle thankful to see Samantha Peraza alive and conscious, albeit with a fairly large bruise on her check. Kate stares at the unconscious Mrs. Romaines with a growing interest and suspicion.

"You first," Marcus tells Dawn, who nods her head in agreement.

"Well, the short version first," Dawn begins. "Marcus carried Mrs. Cynthia Romaines into the building after she passed out at the gate. It took a few minutes, but we revived her fairly easily. When she awoke, she seemed frightened for an instant, but quickly calmed down. I guess she realized where she was. Dr. Peraza here began asking her a couple of questions – and she answered them easily enough."

"What kind of questions?" Castle asks his campus therapist.

"Standard stuff," Dr. Samantha Peraza answers. "Her name, her age for starters. Where she lives, whether she is married or single."

"And none of those questions set her off?" Kate asks.

"Nope," Marcus Duncan answers, kneeling beside Kate with the unconscious woman. "Seemed fine; as fine as you can expect from a woman escaping a bad situation."

"So, what happened?" Castle asks again. "How did this happen?" he continues, gently touching the cheek of his friend.

"Well, that's what were trying to put together when you and Kate arrived," Dr. Peraza replies. "One minute she is answering my questions easily enough. The next second, she is glancing around the room, getting her bearings. Again, normal stuff. Then suddenly she snaps."

"Snaps?" Kate asks.

"Think snapped as in the Lifetime television series," Dawn chuckles, then changes her face at the glare she receives from the injured doctor.

"Out of nowhere, she starts screaming, 'Get back! Get away!'" Marcus interrupts. "And while she is screaming, she is flailing her arms defensively. Caught the good doctor with a good haymaker. I tried to hold her down, and she starts squirming and squealing – I could barely hold on to her."

"So I ran to help," Dawn continues the story, "and she starts kicking wildly at me. I'm serious, the woman snapped. It took both Marcus and I to hold her down while the doctor gave her a quick sedative injection. Then I slipped on the plastic cuffs. But the woman just snapped, Rick."

Castle glances at Dr. Peraza, curious on her take. For her part, Dr. Peraza just rolls her eyes a bit before speaking.

"Much as I hate to say it in such non-clinical terms, Dawn is correct – and highly accurate," the doctor adds. "One minute she is calm, and frightened – as we would expect. The next second, she is a wildcat, with arms and legs flailing crazily."

Castle and Kate both exchange simultaneous glances, and both know instinctively what the other is thinking. The gruesome crime scene they left behind less than an hour ago highly resembled the aftermath of someone 'snapping', as his crew is currently describing.

"We have surveillance, I assume?" Castle asks out loud.

"We always have surveillance, Rick," Marcus answers. "In this room, in the lobby, in the registration room . . . why do you ask? We just told you –"

"I know what you said happened, Marcus," Castle replies easily. "What I want to know is why. Why did she snap. You said she was looking around and suddenly lost it."

He turns his attention back to Samantha Peraza and Dawn Harrison as he continues.

"You seemed to strongly insinuate that it wasn't anything you asked that set her off," Castle comments. "So that means that something here, something in this room launched her."

As he speaks, Kate Beckett stares at a single object hanging on the wall. Pursing her lips, she stands and calls out to the man she loves.

"Rick, follow me."

Without another word, she walks out of the room, leaving a roomful of confused complex workers staring at her.

"Tough night," Castle mutters in her defense as he stands and follows. "We'll be right back."

He meets her in the hallway as she is walking toward the control room where surveillance monitors are set up, now hustling to keep up with the ex-detective.

"What is it, Kate?" he asks. "What did you see?"

"Let's look at the video before I say anything," Kate replies, not slowing down. She reaches the control room door, and opens it quickly, holding it for Castle as he walks inside. Paul Jeffries smiles as the duo enter the room.

"Hello Mr. Castle, Miss Beckett," he greets them. "I guess you heard about our little bout of excitement this evening?"

"We are hoping you caught it all on video, Paul," Kate responds.

"Got the entire altercation," he replies. "I can back the feed up so you can see."

"I'm not interested in the actual physical side of things, Paul," Kate continues. "What we want to see is what instigated things. What caused a reasonably calm woman to go off like that."

"That I can't tell you," he tells them. "I was paying attention, but I was checking other feeds as well. I'm sorry –"

"Absolutely not," Castle interrupts. "Never apologize for doing your job, Paul. Let's just see what we can see."

Seconds later, the control room manager has backed the video feed to the point where they can see Samantha asking questions of the young red-headed woman. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. It is exactly as Samantha, Dawn and Marcus have presented.

They watch Samantha ask questions, and Cynthia Romaines answer the questions. Everything seems normal They watch Cynthia glance around the room – and suddenly her face is a mask of fear and panic. She quickly stands and starts flailing on the doctor, screaming exactly as Samantha has recounted.

"Back it up again, Paul," Kate tells him, her heart sinking now. She has seen what was on the wall, and she wants to see it again before she says anything. They watch the interview again, and then Mrs. Romaines' eyes glance around the room. On the west wall, next to the window, something catches her eye, and the woman begins to go beserk.

"West wall, Rick," Kate tells him. "Come on. Thanks Paul."

Castle looks at Paul Jeffries with an almost comical expression, shrugging his shoulders.

"I guess we're leaving," he smiles, then leaves the room, once again catching up to the ex-NYPD detective.

"Kate?" he asks.

"West wall, Rick," she repeats, as they open the door back to the room where their friends and captive/guest are. "What do you see on the wall?"

Richard Castle glances on the wall next to the window. He sees it immediately. His old baseball bat, signed by the last New York Yankees World Series champions. The bat is cracked, of course, with bruises and cracks due to some impromptu hitting sessions by Lindy Matthews during the attack on the complex over a month ago.

"Oh shit," he whispers.

"Oh shit is right," Kate agrees, whispering back. She then turns her attention to Marcus.

"Marcus, get her out of here before she awakens," Kate tells him. "I don't care where you take her. It won't matter. Just get her out of here. We don't want her awakening here again."

Something in Kate's voice screams urgency, and without a single question, Marcus Duncan scoops up the unconscious woman into his arms and carries her out the door. Dawn Harrison is with him immediately, pointing directions.

"This way," she tells him. "Let's take her to the infirmary."

The door closes, and Dr Samantha Peraza looks long and hard at her friends before speaking.

"Now, which one of you is going to tell me what the hell is going on here?"

.

_**Still Monday Night, Now 11:27 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at Detective Jennifer Blackard's Home in the Mission District**_

The ringing phone interrupts the last of the sports broadcast for the local news. The Giants, two years removed from a World Series championship, have started the season playing just over .500 ball. She glances down at the ringing phone, smiling at the caller ID. For all his many faults, she has never known Sam Carlos to lie. And true to his word, he is reaching out to her again tonight.

And calling. Not texting.

"Hello Mr. Carlos?" she greets him. "I trust your long day is finally over – I hope?"

"Yes, it is, Jennifer," he answers by way of greeting.

"I'm glad to hear from you again, Sam," she tells him. "And a phone call too? Can hell actually freeze over twice in one lifetime?"

It brings a round of much-needed laughter for both parties on the phone. While on separate sides of the ledger, both lead high-strung lives. A break in the action is always welcome.

"Thank you, Jennifer," Sam tells her, and the gratitude takes her aback.

"For what, Sam?" she asks.

He pauses for a few seconds, as if searching for the right words. He considers his conversation with Willie Crockett not even an hour earlier.

"Willie says that you make me human," he gives her. She barely stifles an inaudible gasp on her end.

"What happened?" she finally asks.

"A man's life was spared tonight," Carlos tells her. "A life was spared because you had the audacity . . . the courage to ask me if ending that life was necessary."

A single tear falls down the detective's cheek, as she considers now the incredible, almost divine consequences of a single question. She mentally makes a note to challenge the mobster more often. In her own way, of course.

"I . . . I don't know what to say," she begins, but then catches herself. "Thank you, Sam. Not for me, but for the life you . . . for the life that you chose to spare this evening."

"Eddie Baker owes his life to you, Detective," he offers as he takes a long swallow of bottled water. Sitting in the chair in front of his bay window, he takes a deep breath, leaning back into the large sofa.

"Eddie?" Jennifer exclaims.

"Eddie won't be seen around here anymore," Sam tells her. "But I promise you, Jennifer, he is alive and well, and is leaving town of his own volition. Well, okay, he had a tiny bit of persuasion, I will admit," he chuckles, and she finds herself smiling with him.

"Thank you, Sam," she tells him again, as another tear falls down her cheek. "And thank Willie for me. Never mind, I will thank him myself when I see him again."

"Willie is right, you know," Carlos continues. "You do make me human. More human, let's say. And while that concerned me, Willie also told me that this is a good thing."

"It is, Sam," Jennifer tells him. "It is."

At that moment, with the sports broadcast over, the news anchor signs off with a quick blurb about a firebombing at a North Beach residence suspected of prostitution. Jennifer shakes her head, knowing the antagonists that have driven this story.

"I'm watching the news," she remarks. "A fire in North Beach at a suspected prostitution house. You've been a busy, busy bee tonight."

"Well, I said you make me more human, Detective," he corrects her with a smile she cannot see. "I never said I was a choirboy."

"Good. I never went for choirboys," she laughs, enjoying their back-and-forth banter. It has been years since they let their guard down this much. She is committed to not saying anything to cause another long break in their relationship.

Relationship? Can she really refer to it in such terms?

"No wonder we always got along," Sam remarks, still smiling. "Still, it is late in the evening, and truth be told, I am tired."

"Ha! The great Sam Carlos actually gets tired?" she teases.

"You're the second person tonight to remind me that I am not a Superman," he chuckles.

"Yet another thing for me to thank Willie for," she replies, smiling herself. "I will hear from you in the morning?"

"Unless you wish not to," he replies.

"Seriously, Mr. Carlos?" she deadpans. "You've become my alarm clock for the morning."

She disconnects the call with the final delivery, knowing that he will be smiling, staring at the phone. And also knowing that he is going to have play a little game of chase here. Yeah, there is a pull between them. There always has been. They both can still feel it. But she will be damned if she is going to be the one doing all the chasing.

"Good night, Sam," she whispers to the room at large as she clicks the television off with the remote control, and walks to her bedroom to retire for the evening, marveling at the notion that a few words from her may have saved a life; a few words from her actually held influence over her old college friend.

.

**A/N:** A very short chapter, I know, but I wanted to get out two chapters this Easter weekend to keep the story moving along. Next chapter we start to find out more about the mysterious Cynthia Romaines, and what her real motivation may or may not be. Vague enough? 😊


	7. Chapter 7

**Blank: Chapter 7**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

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_**Still Monday Night, Now 11:33 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Infirmary at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

"She's coming around, Rick," Dawn tells him. "You might want to come on down."

"On our way," Richard Castle tells the woman on his security detail. He hangs up the phone and turns to Kate, addressing both the ex-detective and the campus therapist.

"Dawn says she is waking up," he tells both women, as he walks toward the door to leave Dr. Samantha Peraza's office, where he and Kate had holed up for a few minutes to bring the good doctor up to speed on what transpired back in Daly City. Or – at least what they know of at the moment. Right now, however, they all have a lot of questions, and are hoping that an awake – and hopefully much calmer Cynthia Romaines – can provide some much-needed answers.

Castle opens the door and holds it open while the two women file out. They walk in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, down the hallway some thirty-five feet past the doctor's office to the campus infirmary. Opening the door, he again allows the two women to proceed first, before following them inside.

True as Dawn had indicated, Mrs. Romaines is awake, sitting, and – at least for now – docile.

"You doing okay there?" Castle asks Dawn as he watches her walk toward the small fridge for a bottled water. "You seem to be limping a bit more today."

"No, I'm good," Dawn tells them. She is still getting over her leg injury from over a month ago. "Hard PT this afternoon, so the leg is just a little tired. All good, though."

"You sure?" Kate asks, the concern now evident on her face as well. "It's been a long day. Why don't you let us take it from –"

"You _do_ know that if Lindy were around right now to hear this, she would likely kick all of our asses for being wimps, don't you?" Dawn laughs, and Castle and Kate find themselves smiling with the security woman. Both know that – if anything – Dawn has understated Matthew's likely response to the scene in front of them. Dr. Peraza, however, is focused entirely on her new patient.

"Mrs. Romaines," Dr. Peraza begins, attempting to take the focus back to the newest guest. "How are you feeling? It has been a difficult night for you."

"You could say that," the redhead mutters under her breath. She eyes the newcomers in the room warily for a few seconds until recognition from billboards and television interviews kick in regarding one Richard Castle.

"Mr. Castle," Mrs. Romaines begins. "Oh, thank you, God. Thank you, God."

"Oh no," Kate rumbles under her breath, but loud enough for Dr. Samantha Peraza to hear. "His ego isn't big enough already, now we have to throw a god-complex into the equation."

Both women chuckle, almost instinctively realizing that this may be the last smile they can share for the night. These incoming stories presented by their women are rarely the same – and never funny. Richard Castle sits beside the woman on a chair next to the bed where the newest guest sits up.

"What can we do for you, Mrs. Romaines?" he begins. Of all of the guests they have had here at the complex, he senses that this story is going to be one for the records.

Suddenly, the woman on the bed erupts in tears. The almost hysterical display causes Castle to roll the chair backwards a foot or so before he recovers. Kate Beckett takes a quick step toward the bed, but Dr. Peraza quickly extends a hand, holding the ex-detective in place.

"No," she whispers, shaking her head. "This woman has come a long way, late in the night, specifically to get here. Clearly, she has something she wants to say, and she wants to say it to Richard."

"Mr. Castle," the distraught woman begins. "I didn't know where to go. I don't know where to start."

"Start with how you got that bruise on your cheek, Cynthia," he asks, using her first name to try and calm the woman down a bit. "That's why you're here, right?"

She pauses, glancing around the room at the other three women still there. Her eyes fall back onto Richard Castle.

"Well, yeah . . . I guess," she answers, then reverses field. "No. No, that's not why I am here. I mean, yes in a way it is, but not really . . ."

She runs her hands through her flaming hair, dropping her chin to her chest as she continues.

"Oh God," she continues. "What do I do, Mr. Castle? I figured you would know what to do."

"Slow down, slow down," Castle tells her, smoothly rolling on the chair back toward the bed. "What happened? What happened back at your house? We went there. We saw. What happened?"

Cynthia Romaines glances around the room one more time. She spends a bit longer looking at the walls. It is as if she is looking for something. Kate Beckett knows exactly what the frightened woman is looking for.

"My husband," she begins, and the tears well up in her eyes once more.

"Take your time, Cynthia," Dr. Peraza instructs from the foot of the bed where she still stands.

"My husband," she tries again. "He . . . Jeremy. His name is Jeremy."

"Yes, his name is Jeremy," Castle agrees. "We know that. What can you tell us about Jeremy?"

'Mean," she answers. "So mean. Hurts me. Often."

"I'm sorry, Cynthia," Castle responds, glancing over to Kate. Kate remains stoic. She is trying to put together pieces to this puzzle, and it seems to her that two puzzles have been mixed together. She doesn't know which picture is the correct one. The scene in front of her in the room is in stark contrast to the violent remains they left behind at this woman's home. The difference is striking, and truth be told – the latter vision is winning right now.

"Jeremy hurts you," Castle continues. "More than once, I assume."

"Yes," she replies. Clearly, she isn't going to elaborate. But they need more. Much more.

"Cynthia," Castle almost whispers, still keeping his distance, but opting for a more personal setting. It works, as the woman finally begins to get her bearings and opens up.

"Jeremy . . . this was the safest place for me," Cynthia tells him, and then looks at Dawn Harrison who stands behind Castle.

"This is the safest place for me to be," she continues. "I had to come here. I had to."

"We understand, Cynthia," Dawn tells her. "Tell us what happened," she continues herself, now glancing at Kate and the good doctor, asking them to come over with a wave of her head.

"Jeremy was angry," Cynthia tells the room. "He was so angry. He hit me. Twice. He was so angry. I guess it is my fault, as I –"

"No, Cynthia," Dr. Peraza corrects her, her voice calm and low but decisive. "It is never your fault."

"But he needed it," Cynthia tells them. "He needed it and I wouldn't give it to him."

Castle and the three other women in the room almost comically and simultaneously drop their heads. The very idea that a man hits a woman is intolerable to them. It is why they are there, why this place exists. But the notion that he wanted sex, couldn't have it – and his wife justifies that as reason enough for his violence is almost too much for everyone there.

Thankfully, before anyone can say anything to the woman, she elaborates and clears up a potential misunderstanding.

"We agreed I would never give him the code," Cynthia tells the room at large. "We agreed I would keep the code so he would never use it."

"What code?" Kate asks from the foot of the bed, the relief on her face clear to everyone in the room.

"The code to our safe," she replies. "The location of the safe, and the code to get in. Our savings. It's all there."

"Instead of in a bank account?" Dawn asks.

"Too easy for Jeremy to get to," Cynthia explains. "He gambles. A lot. We agreed. I keep the savings. I keep the code. He's never gotten this angry before. Well, not about this, at least. Not about the code. He's asked for it before, and I always say no. He gets mad, goes and grabs a beer or whatever. An hour later he's fine."

Cynthia looks from Dawn to Castle and continues.

"But not tonight," she tells them.

"Why was tonight different?" Castle asks.

"He wanted it all," Cynthia replies. "All of our savings. Thirty-one thousand dollars. He needed to pay off a debt. He's addicted. It's his addiction. Evidently, he owes a lot. He never tells me how much. But I know it is a lot. He's been getting phone calls. Leaving the room."

Another tear runs down her cheek as she gazes outward – not focused on anyone anymore.

"He hit me tonight," she continues, repeating herself. "Twice. Suddenly there was a noise from the back. Someone literally knocked our back door in. My first thought was 'thank God – Ron had come over to help me.'"

"Who's Ron?" Castle asks.

"Our next door neighbor," Cynthia replies. "Ron and Kathy live next door. Ron has . . . Ron has had words with Jeremy before. About hurting me. I thought Ron had come over."

"It wasn't Ron though, was it?" Castle asks, a new picture now forming in his head.

"No, Mr. Castle," she admits. "It wasn't Ron. It wasn't Kathy."

"Who was it?" Kate asks.

"I don't know," Cynthia replies. "I didn't know them. I had never seen them before. But it was clear that Jeremy knew them. Jeremy was afraid. He was very afraid of them. He told me to run."

She stops for a moment, the tears falling all over again. Castle reaches across to grab a napkin. Kate walks to the fridge and grabs a bottled water. She walks over to Castle, now standing bedside. Dawn instinctively gives up her standing position and goes next to the doctor at the foot of the bed.

"I'm guessing your husband owed these men money," Castle remarks.

"That's what I was thinking, too," Cynthia replies. "That's when I tried to get out of there. He said run. I tried to run. I had been thinking about leaving Jeremy anyway, and I knew these men had bad intentions."

"So, you left," Castle asks.

"No," Cynthia answers, surprising everyone. "One of the men grabbed me. Told me I wasn't going anywhere. Told me they wanted their money. Jeremy tried to tell them I didn't know anything, but then one of them was carrying a baseball bat. He slammed it on Jeremy's leg," she continues, and the fear in her eyes tells them she is reliving the intense moment.

"It was so horrible," she continues. "Sickening. You could hear his leg break. That's when Jeremy told them to ask me. I can't blame him. They wanted their money, and I was the only one who knew where it was, and what the code to the safe was."

"They made you watch," Kate whispers, anger building. Only Castle and Cynthia have heard her words, and Mrs. Romaines simply nods her head in agreement.

"Yes, they made me watch," she tells them. "They asked me where the safe was, and I guess I hesitated too long, because the one with the bat hit Jimmy again. While he was on the ground. Hit him in the face. And then again. It was horrible, his screams . . . they . . ."

She shuts down again, crying more fiercely now. Kate smoothly switches places with Castle so that she can hold the woman's hand. She sits on the bed next to her, not saying a word – letting the woman cry it out, allowing her to feel her presence.

Richard Castle sits with pursed lips, putting the scene back together in his mind. Jeremy has gambling debts, and likely knew these guys were coming over for him to pay up. So, he is asking his wife – demanding his wife give him the code, and by extension – likely save his life. That she resisted when he asked, and then hesitated when the goons showed up at his house likely cost him his life. And so, Cynthia Romaines is dealing with a lot tonight.

She is dealing with the pain and anguish and sadness of being yet another battered wife. Again.

She is dealing with the pending nightmares of witnessing the brutal murder of her husband.

And she is dealing with the guilt that it was likely her hesitation that was the cause of his death. She feels responsible.

"There was so much blood," she sobs into Kate's shoulder. Kate rocks back and forth slowly, allowing the woman to let it out.

"How did you get away?" Dawn asks from the foot of the bed. Yeah, it sounds like a horrific story and all, but the security woman is wondering if this is true, how did she get away? Why did they let her leave?

"Pure luck," Cynthia tells them, sniffling noisily. "Police sirens started approaching. I have no idea why, but they panicked and left. Told me they weren't finished with me. That they'd be back. That there was nowhere I could hide. Obviously, the sirens weren't for them. But it got them out of my house."

"So, you called _us_?" Castle asks incredulously, his mind not accepting her decision. "Why not call the police?"

Cynthia Romaines looks at the ex-author and laughs. Literally laughs. Not the funny, ha-ha kind of laugh, but the bitter, you-have-got-to-be-shitting-me kind of laughter. She shakes her head, as if it was the most ridiculous question he could have asked.

"You're kidding, right?" she asks. "Call the San Francisco PD? Don't you understand? Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if someone in the PD told those creeps to attack Jeremy and I. They are knee deep in this."

"But –"

She cuts him off. Brusquely.

"We heard what happened out here, Mr. Castle," she tells Castle, then looks around at the other three women. "We heard what happened when your facility out here was attacked. Everyone knows how you handle trespassers. No police. No help. Your team held them back. Killed them all. I can't go to the police because I don't know who there is involved with this. The safest place I could think of was this place. If they followed me, I figured my chances were better out here than on my own, or in a hotel. And I didn't want to bring Ron and Kathy into this. Not this kind of mess. So I called here. And it wasn't a lie for me to come here, Mr. Castle, because Jeremy _did_ hit me. I was thinking of leaving, like I said. I just . . . I couldn't . . ."

She stops talking and Kate slowly stands, glancing at Dr. Peraza and mouths the words for her to switch places. The doctor comes and sits next to Cynthia, taking Kate's place while Kate motions for Castle to join her outside the infirmary.

Castle slowly picks himself up from the chair, his mind now racing with possibilities. One glance at Kate tells him she is thinking the exact same thing.

He opens the door for her and walks out with her. The door isn't even closed all the way before Kate turns around to address the man she loves.

"Call Mike," she tells him. "We need to lock this place down. Again."

.

_**Past midnight, Now 12:14 a.m. on April 17, 2012 off Columbus Avenue in San Francico**_

Jimbo Jordan and Kenny Gordon stand in the large open living room, a bay window opening out over Columbus Avenue below. The two men offer glances between themselves and the large window where Frank Perkins stands, gazing out on the street below. The two men are runners for Perkins, a bookie in the city. One of the top bookies, at that. And right now, he is wondering why is doesn't have the twenty-five thousand dollars in his hands that one Jeremy Romaines owes him. This was supposed to be a simple rouse and rough up. Get the money. By whatever means necessary.

The fact that the two men came back empty-handed is both a surprise and disappointment to the bookie.

"So, tell me, JJ," Perkins begins, "how in the world did you fail to handle a stiff like Jeremy Romaines?"

"It was just bad timing, boss," Jordan replies. We were roughing him up a bit when it became obvious that he really didn't know where the money was. Evidently, his wife is much smarter than Jeremy is. Or was, I should say. She wasn't telling him. And she didn't seem too terribly inclined to tell us, either."

"Even after we hit him a couple of times," Kenny Gordon adds. "With a damn bat, no less."

"So, why isn't the woman here with you, singing like a canary for us?" Perkins asks, his anger beginning to rise.

"Well, we were getting ready to grab her when we heard sirens," Gordon replies.

"Evidently, we came in right as the Romaines were having another fight," Jordan adds. "She was already on the ground, so we knew we had to work quickly. When we heard sirens, we figured –"

"Got it, got it," Perkins interrupts. "You heard sirens and figured she had called the police, and so the police would be coming to the house."

"Exactly," Gordon replies agreeably. "We figured you wouldn't want us caught like that."

"Especially not knowing which of the blues would be showing up," Jordan continues. "We never know when someone friendly is going to be there."

"Agree," Perkins tells the duo. "OK, at least tell me this much. You spoke of Jeremy in the past tense earlier. I assume Romaines is dead."

"The husband?" Kenny Gordon asks.

"Yeah, Jeremy is dead as hell," Jordan adds. "His wife was fine, though. I mean, aside from a little bruising he gave her."

"Yeah, like JJ said," Gordon continues. "She was fine. Took off when we did."

"And I assume you know where she is now?" Perkins asks.

"Sure, boss," Jordan replies. "She's over in Sausalito. At that battered women's shelter over there."

"The Castle place?" Perkins asks, with a raise of his eyebrows.

"That's the one," Jordan answers. "If you want, we can pay a visit. But we didn't want to do anything before asking you –"

"No, no, you did right," Perkins tells the men. "That will be all. I will call you when I need you again."

Knowing a dismissal – and a reprieve – when they see one, the two men anxiously depart from the second-floor flat that is home to Frank Perkins. Perkins stands at the bay window, watching the two men enter the car below and drive away before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He dials the number quickly, and allows it to ring twice.

He really does not want to disturb this man – but he knows the rules. If something happens, he wants to know sooner rather than later. And this is something that he knows the man will definitely want to know. After all, twenty-five thousand dollars is twenty-five thousand dollars.

On the third ring, Perkins is rewarded.

"12:29 in the morning," Sam Carlos answers. "I assume this is important, Frankie."

.

**A/N:** I hope everyone is doing well. We are still locked down, and I anticipate we will be for quite a while. As you can tell from this story, things are not always as they seem, and now Kate and Castle have to consider a potential scenario that could put them at odds with the SFPD (and Jennifer), or worse - with local gambling bookies (and potentially Sam Carlos).


	8. Chapter 8

**Blank: Chapter 8**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

_**Past Midnight, at 12:30 a.m. on April 17, 2012, at Sam Carlos' Presidio Residence in San Francisco**_

"I assume this is important, Frankie," Sam Carlos answers the phone, glancing at his watch. He knows whatever the reason for the call, it will be important. And probably not good news. Frankie knows the rules, he has been associated with Carlos long enough. Good news? Frankie would wait until the morning before calling.

Bad news?

Yeah, this is not going to be a good call.

"It is, Mr. Carlos," Frankie Perkins replies. "You know I would not call were it not."

"Agreed, my friend," Carlos replies, stifling a yawn. He had actually hoped tonight would be an early night for him. After giving Eddie Baker a reprieve to get out of town – and torching his little whorehouse for good measure – Carlos had given Willie Crockett the rest of the night off. Now, back at his own residence, he is holding a cup of chai tea as he had been headed toward his bedroom and a few hours of shuteye before the call from Perkins came in.

"So, explain," Carlos continues.

"It's late . . . or early . . . whatever, you know what I mean," Perkins begins. "So I will give you the high-level summary and let you decide whether you want the full details now, or at a more reasonable hour. I sent two of my boys to collect from Jeremy Romaines tonight . . . well, now it would be last night."

"JJ and Kenny, I presume?" Carlos tells him, knowing that his knowledge of the intricate details of how Frank Perkins operates will slightly unnerve the bookie. "If memory serves, Mr. Romaines owes us just over twenty-five thousand dollars."

"Uh, yeah . . . you're right," Perkins answers, hiding his flustered nature as much as possible. It is not unnoticed by Carlos, however, who says nothing, so Perkins continues.

"The boys got to Romaines' house tonight for a simple collection call."

"And since you are calling me," Carlos interrupts, "I can only assume this was not a simple collection call."

"No, it wasn't," Perkins continues. "Again, long-story short, my boys interrupted an argument. Seems Romaines had roughed up his wife, and she called the police. JJ and Kenny questioned Romaines, but it seems his wife holds the purse strings and wasn't handing them over."

"Smart woman," Carlos nods. "And given the circumstances, somewhat brave."

"Yeah, well, the boys roughed up her husband a bit too much," Perkins continues again. "He didn't make it."

"That's unfortunate," Carlos replies, his mood definitely darkening. Sam Carlos is not one to hesitate taking a life. But he does live by somewhat of a code, his own ethics. And truth be told, it isn't often that he decides that taking a life is necessary. However, when he does – last night with Eddie Baker being the exception – he doesn't think twice about it.

That said, in Carlos' mind, killing customers for non-payment doesn't make sense – financially or for reputation. You don't get your money, you lose the chance at future money from a known entity, and you potentially scare off future customers. That it came to this last night with the Romaines man is a disappointment for Carlos.

"I don't think the boys meant to kill him," Frank Perkins continues. "But the woman wasn't giving up the code to the safe, and then all of the sudden, they heard sirens. Figured it was the police coming for the domestic violence call. They couldn't be sure who was going to be coming from the department, so –"

"I understand," Carlos tells him, cutting the conversation short. "So, Romaines is dead, his wife is alive, we go and get our money from her. So why are you calling me?"

"That's the problem," Perkins replies, now getting nervous. "She's not at home anymore. She's checked into the Castle's place across the bridge. You know, the place where –"

"I know the place, Frank," Carlos replies, his heart sinking, as the ramifications of this latest news knock aside the cobwebs that been calling him toward a peaceful night of sleep. He turns from his bedroom and heads now toward the kitchen. He tosses the cup of tea into the sink, and places the cup in the sink. He turns and opens a cabinet, taking out a small tumbler. Now he walks to the living room to the wall unit where he keeps his stash of alcohol, and grabs a bottle of scotch. It has been almost a minute since he has said a word to his caller, and by now, the silence is killing one Frank Perkins, who is now rethinking his decision to call the mobster at this hour of the morning.

"You're sure she is at the Castle Complex?" Carlos finally asks, breaking the deadly silence.

"Yes, sir," Perkins answers, grateful for the question.

"Okay, I appreciate the call, Frankie," Carlos tells him.

"What do you want me to do, sir?" Perkins asks him. He knows it is late for a call out to the women's facility tonight, but you never know with Carlos.

"I want you to do nothing for the moment," Carlos tells him.

"But sir, that's twenty-five thousand dollars for you," Perkins debates, knowing that more than half of that amount belongs to Perkins himself.

"I know how much money it is, Mr. Perkins," Carlos responds, a bit of ice now in his voice. Perkins shudders involuntarily, realizing his slip.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carlos –"

"We will get our money in due time," Carlos tells him. "I will get back in touch with you later today. And thank you for the call, Perkins. You did the right thing."

With that, Sam Carlos disconnects the call with Frank Perkins, not giving the now-nervous bookie a second thought. No, the mobster's mind is now on the Sausalito complex, and his friends out there. He purses his lips, frowning. A confrontation with these people is the last thing – the absolute last thing that Sam Carlos wants right now. For two reasons.

One, they are friends.

Two, they are formidable friends.

A glass of scotch in hand, he sits in the large chair facing his bay window looking out over the forest outside, contemplating his next steps.

.

_**Now 1:17 a.m. on April 17, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

The large administration room in the main building is rapidly filling up with people in the early post-midnight hour, and although they are all friends, and always happy to see each other, the faces are somber and serious.

As befitting the text message that Dawn Harrison sent to each member.

_Dawn: Circle the wagons. Code Black. ASAP._

When Mike Monroe first created the Code Black situation back in December of last year, prior to the opening of the complex, Richard Castle had – at the time – just smiled and gone along with his security chief. He had hired Monroe to create the safest and most secure facility possible, given the violent backdrop of the complex. And sure enough, true to his military roots, Monroe had implemented what Castle had considered – again, at the time – to be some pretty far-fetched protocols for far-fetched scenarios.

One of those protocols had been the Code Black; the most secure lock-down procedures in the event of an attack on the complex.

"_What, are you anticipating an army of special ops husbands swarming down on our location because of a wife or girlfriend?" Castle had half-joked at the time._

Since then, Monroe's foresight has been proven to be – first – far less funny than Castle initially thought – and second – far too prophetic, as the complex has already survived one full-scaled assault less than four months into its short history.

And now tonight, it appears that the protocol is necessary once again.

"I owe you an apology once again," Castle half whispers to his friend, the security chief as they watch the incoming team members mosey around, getting waters, exchanging pleasantries. For his part, Monroe knows why Castle is apologizing, remembering their exchange of four-plus months ago as well.

"Not necessary, Rick," Monroe tells his old friend.

"I wish it weren't," Castle argues. "However, I think it is safe to say that both my apology and your uber-military security protocols are necessary tonight."

Monroe simply nods his head as he clears his throat, then gets the attention of everyone in the room. Fortunately, every single member of the security team lives on this side of the large rust-red colored bridge – at the insistence of Mike Monroe during the hiring process. It was an easy decision for everyone, since Richard Castle has generously included a living-allowance to each security team member to help off-set the west coast cost-of-living – specifically in Sausalito.

Since the assault on the complex and the freeing of the women prisoners out on Angel Island, the size of Castle's security team has grown to sixteen. With four people each on twelve-hour shifts now, it leaves two teams of four with off-time at any one time. Wanting the team to have more of this so-called off-time, Castle suggested having each team work a twelve-hour shift. Twelve hours on, then twelve hours off for two consecutive days – then two days off – similar to a nursing schedule. It keeps the team fresher, according to Monroe, and gives them time to live a little.

"Hey everyone, let's get started before the sun comes up," Monroe begins, and both Castle and Kate Beckett are taken aback – for not the first time – at the full-military demeanor that takes over their friend – and the rest of the team, as well.

Monroe smiles as every team member immediately halts their conversations and smiles and musings, and immediately finds a chair, sitting, facing the security chief. It couldn't have been more choreographed if they rehearsed it. He looks at more than a dozen serious faces looking back at him before beginning.

"Thank you, my friends, all of you, for allowing us to interrupt your evenings. I know you do not get much downtime. But this is important."

He glances over at Marcus Duncan and Dawn Harrison.

"Dawn, thank you for getting all of us here so quickly," he continues. He glances at each of his friends, finding them all dressed in dark jeans and military boots, with varying colored t-shirts. There is no dress code, just the insistence on clothing consistent with the mission – whatever it may be. The lone exception is Lindy Matthews, who wears gray sweatpants and a matching gray hoodie with the 49er logo. Her work clothes are here, and she expects to be here for a while. Her hood is pulled up atop her head, and to the casual observer she appears fast asleep. Monroe smiles, knowing differently.

"Here is the situation," Monroe continues. "A Cynthia Romaines was admitted as a guest this evening. She is on the run from a criminal element back in the city that is attempting to extract a large sum of money from her. Her husband is dead, killed this past evening by said criminal element. As such, we are anticipating visitors sometime in the coming days. Visitors who may come with unfortunate intentions."

"Unfortunate for who?" Wes Marshall asks. Marshall is one of the newest members Castle allowed Monroe to add to the team since the attack on the complex over a month ago. Safety in numbers, and all of that.

"Unfortunate for them," a female voice mumbles from the back of the room.

Heads half turn toward the source of those words - which, of course - have come from the lone, hooded figure in the last row of chairs. Richard Castle both smiles and shudders at the calm ferocity of the team's most feared member.

"What are we up against?" Colin Alexander asks.

"We aren't sure yet," Mike Monroe admits. "Right now, we are under precaution – making assignments outside the normal shift coverage. Immediately, we are moving to Code Black, which means five people on for eight hours. Three shifts, larger force, shorter shift time. One rover. Everyone sleeps onsite."

There are no groans, no grumblings, and for that, Richard Castle struggles to keep the developing mist in his eyes off his cheeks. The squeeze to his hand from Kate, to his left, tells him the ex-detective is having the same feelings. Sure, this is what all of these people have signed up for. Sure, they knew what this could possibly entail when they took this job. But to see steely eyes and determined faces, instead of frustrated grumblings brings more gratitude to the pair than they realize.

"We're so fortunate," Kate whispers to him, as Monroe continues giving instructions.

"I know, babe," Castle whispers back, giving her hand a squeeze in response.

Both cue in onto the questions – officiously offered – by various team members.

"Are you expecting something similar to a month ago?" Jerry asks.

"No, not at this time," Mike replies. "Again, this protocol is a precaution at this time."

"How do you know it won't be something like last time?" Wes, the newest member asks.

"Because they aren't that stupid," comes the mumbled response from the hooded figure in the back. This time Kate cannot suppress the chuckle in the back of her throat. Even Castle's slight tap to her hip cannot shush the campus private investigator.

"Gotta love Lindy," Kate whispers again.

"Oh, I do! I do!" Castle mutters back.

"Well damn, I thought I was the one who would be the recipient of those two words, Mr. Castle," Kate teases with a responsive bump of her hip. She has no idea of the inward smile, or the plans in the head of the man next to her.

"Would you two cut it out," Dr. Peraza chuckles at her two friends. The three share a smile, and – once again – as if perfectly synchronized – the trio loses their smiles as they tune back into the conversation before them. Monroe issues a few more instructions, answers a couple more questions and suddenly the meeting is adjourned, and over a dozen highly-trained, ex-military men and women gather themselves and head out the door to the security quarters.

Lindy Matthews is the last to stand from her chair, gathering herself and – hood still on – approaches the front of the room where Monroe is now standing with Castle, Kate and the campus therapist.

"Hey," Matthews calls out, glancing at the wall as she walks toward the front. "Where is my bat?"

Chuckles break out among three of the four at the front of the room now, Castle being the lone hold-out.

"You mean _my _bat," he tells the approaching security woman.

"Tomato – Tomahto," Matthews brushes off. "Where is it?"

"We had to . . . remove it for now," Kate tells the woman.

"Why? I might need it again," Matthews continues, knowing she is rubbing a raw wound in the top man at the campus. She figures he has ruined her night, she can ruin his a little. The hoodie hides the growing smile underneath.

"You're horrible," Monroe smiles at his friend and . . . whatever they are becoming.

"That's not what you were saying . . . oh about an hour ago, Mike," she calmly offers, leaving the remainder of the room sputtering and half choking. Monroe, for his part, only chuckles.

"Let's just say you interrupted what I had hoped was going to be our first time together," he whispers to Richard Castle, who is turning red-faced with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Mike," Rick returns with a hand on the shoulder of his taller friend. "Truly. Believe me, I had no idea."

"Would it have mattered, boss?" Lindy asks, now standing next to the others.

"Well, I . . . you know . . ." Castle tries to answer, but she cuts him off.

"I didn't think so," she replies, but she is smiling with the rest of them now. "So . . . what are we really up against here? What didn't you tell us?"

Richard Castle and Kate Beckett can only smile. No, their friends are no dummies. They can tell when certain information is being withheld. They've been through enough pre-battle briefings to know what type of information dissemination to expect. And yeah, Monroe was holding back.

"A woman was admitted tonight . . . last night," Castle begins.

"I got that much," Lindy remarks.

"Her husband assaulted her, and then he himself was killed by certain people looking to extract money from him."

"Got that much, also," Lindy replies, her eyes narrowing.

"At some point, at some level, most crime that is organized in any fashion back in the city will roll up to one man," Castle tells her.

He counts mentally to two before he sees the recognition in her eyes.

"Ah," she nods. "So, friends become something less than friends."

"That's what we really, really hope to avoid," Castle admits to her.

"We are hoping it doesn't come to that," Kate adds.

"Well, for their sake, you'd better hope you're right," Lindy tells the duo. "Because friends or not, there is no playing nice if someone comes here."

"You got that right," Monroe adds, agreeing with the shorter blonde. "Now, if we are done, Lindy and I have the second shift and are going to quarters to get some shut eye."

"Maybe you can continue . . . whatever was happening earlier this evening?" Castle whispers to his friend as they leave. Of course, Matthews overhears.

"Oh, that ship has definitely sailed tonight, Mr. Castle," she offers with a smile, locking her arm with Monroe's. Monroe looks back as the couple walk out the door.

"_You owe me,"_ he mouths to Castle with a smile.

Castle simply nods his head, smiling himself, when his phone begins to ring. He retrieves the phone from his jacket pocket, glancing at the caller ID, frowning.

"Well, this night just isn't going to end, is it?" he offers to Kate, showing her his phone.

"Interesting that he is calling me and not you," he tells her as he answers the call. Kate nods in agreement, closing her eyes for a moment as she lifts her head.

"_Now what?"_ she asks the heavens silently as she listens to the man she loves answer the phone.

"Hello Sam," Castle greets their friend. "I guess neither of us is getting any sleep tonight."

.

**A/N:** My thanks to everyone who is reading this story, and for the comments and side conversations we have going on. I hope everyone is safe. I know some people are losing loved ones. Some people are losing jobs. Very few of us are unaffected. And things can get heated among friends with our opinions. Partisan thinking is eliminating any possible chance of resolution.

I offer this: In one of my stories, I wrote about something called confirmation bias. That is, when I believe something, and I have got it so deep into my head that nothing – no facts, no discoveries – can change my mind. In fact, I believe what I believe so deeply that anything – ANYTHING – that does not line up with what I have decided is true – I cast aside. I discard it. And therefore, I never learn anything new.

I hope that all of us recognize that each and every one of us are guilty of confirmation bias – and just think – if we can overcome this, if we can open our minds to other possibilities – then true agreement can take place – and with agreement, solutions follow. Sadly folks, we aren't going to get this from government leaders – at least not in the U.S. So – it is up to us. Each one of us. Be open. This is affecting all of us. Causing a lot of pain. Let's not waste this pain. Spread the word. Peace and love to all of you.


	9. Chapter 9

**Blank: Chapter 9**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

_**1:45 a.m. on April 17, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

"From your greeting, I am going to make the assumption that I do not need to tell you the purpose of this call, Richard," Sam Carlos offers by way of greeting. His use of Castle's first name is not lost on Richard Castle.

"_He wants this to work out,"_ Castle tells himself silently, and closes his eyes for a second or two as he answers.

"Well, if it has to do with a Cynthia Romaines, then yes, we are on the same page," Castle offers.

"Are we Richard?" Sam asks, and Castle can tell it is a legitimate question, not a threatening one. "You think we are on the same page?"

"I think so, Sam," Castle replies. "We have many women here who come here under a wide and varied range of circumstances . . . although I do wish that Mrs. Romaines did not come here as a widow."

"Point taken," Carlos responds, and once again Castle is surprised by the tone and candor of this conversation – at least so far.

"While I did not order the death of Mr. Romaines," Carlos begins, "I do admit that Frankie's boys do tend to get a little too aggressive at times. I have refrained from reigning them in – so to speak – because if I must choose between a tentative man or an aggressive man, in most cases I will take the latter. Particularly when collections are in order."

Sam Carlos pauses, taken aback by the chuckling sound he hears on the other end of the phone.

"As I come from the east coast, that has to be the most sophisticated way to sound very casual about a bit of leg-breaking," Castle half-smiles against himself – bringing a quizzical look from Kate Beckett, who stands next to him.

"I suppose it does sound casual," Carlos admits. "But in the end, this_ is_ my money that your newest guest holds onto. Gambling is a two-way agreement . . . a game of chance. One that I play constantly. Sometimes I win. When I win, I expect to be paid. Sometimes I lose. When I lose, I willingly pay. This is just fair, no?"

"No, you're right on that point, my friend," Castle agrees.

Kate is now sitting in the chair, he hands rustling through dark locks of hair, shaking her head at the scene before her. The man she loves is standing there having a casual conversation with a notorious criminal mastermind about a woman who has just been widowed indirectly by said mastermind . . . and yet she harbors no ill feelings toward the man. This realization bothers her greatly.

Castle – for his part – truly does understand Sam's perspective. Perhaps it is his east coast upbringing. Perhaps it is the fact that over the past few years he has interacted with the seedier side of New York City enough times to understand both sides of this equation. Regardless, Castle is a realist. He knows this is just business. If someone owes a debt, they should pay it. Whether legal or not, Castle himself has done enough gambling to know that anyone who gambles is taking a risk with their money, and their life if they don't pay up. So, he cannot in good faith hold it against Sam Carlos that the man wants his money. It is this mindset that plays in his head as he listens to Sam continue.

"So, Richard – someone playing this game without the money – that person is a liar. That person is a thief. You will notice, Richard, that I do many things in this city that are certainly illegal – but I am not a liar, and I do not tolerate thieves."

"Why not?" Castle asks, and again, Carlos takes no affront at the question. He knows this man well enough now to understand it is just his naturally curious nature.

For his part, it truly is natural curiosity for Richard Castle. When he considers all that he knows about Sam Carlos, he cannot shake the thought that the leader of a criminal organization who does not tolerate prostitution, liars or thieves – yet commits murder – well, somehow this just sounds highly incongruent.

"Because a man who will lie to someone will eventually lie to me," Carlos tells him. "Someone who will rob from a person will eventually rob from me. I may as well put a bullet in him now."

The logic is warped, of course. But then again, not really. For Sam Carlos, a sociology and philosophy major – this is simple Humanities 101.

Sam Carlos – on the other hand – understands the likely mental state of the woman in Castle's facility, and the likelihood that she was unaware or unagreeable to the debt her husband created. But in the end, it doesn't matter – Sam cannot allow such a precedent to be set, and Castle understands this.

"Believe me, I understand your point of view, Sam," Castle decides quickly. "You are owed money. You should get your money – a deal is a deal. I've done enough gambling to know that much. But right at this very moment, with a woman who has just gone through what is likely the most traumatic moments of her life, I just can't . . . I won't just walk in there and ask her for . . . how much are we talking about?"

"Twenty-five thousand dollars," Carlos replies. He smiles as he hears Castle exhaling his breath with a whistle. He also notes the change of wording that his new friend uses. The change from "can't" to "won't" is not lost on him.

"I do understand the likely mental state of Mrs. Romaines, Richard," Carlos continues. "Furthermore, I am well aware of the likelihood that she was unaware – or at least highly unagreeable – to the debt her late husband created. But in the end, it doesn't matter. I cannot allow any adverse precedent to be set."

"No, I imagine that you cannot," Castle agrees. "So, this is your phone call. What do you suggest? We both know that you hold the leverage right now," Castle asks, as an idea begins to percolate inside his head.

"And yet, despite this leverage you speak of, I can tell from your voice, you have something in mind?" Carlos asks, but it isn't really a question.

"Give me a little time," Castle tells him, making his request. "Let her get settled, let her get her mind together. She just lost her husband, Sam. Kate and I were there. We saw –"

"You and Kate were where?" Carlos asks, the change in his voice apparent.

"At the Romaines' house," Castle replies. "After the fact. She had called the complex here as a battered wife, looking for asylum. We granted that. When we went to do the pickup . . . well, when our man went to do the pickup, that's when he noticed the carnage left at her house. And she wasn't there. So he called us. Kate and I got there as soon as we could."

"I understand," Carlos responds, with a nod of his head.

"We saw the aftermath, Sam," Castle continues. "It was brutal. Blood everywhere in her living room. It is not an image that she is going to likely ever forget. Give her a little time."

"How much time are we talking about, Richard?" Carlos asks, intrigued with how this conversation has gone. In truth, he was highly worried about the direction this little talk – along with numerous friendships – would go.

"You tell me," Castle replies. "As I said, I'm not exactly well-leveraged here, Sam."

Once again, Sam Carlos marvels and appreciates his new friend's mindset and honesty.

"Call me back in a week, Richard," Carlos decides. "Tell me how she is doing. Then we will talk . . . about payment."

"Thank you, my friend," Castle replies, the affection genuine. "And you said twenty-five thousand?"

"Yes," Carlos responds with a single word.

"Let's do breakfast later today – at a reasonable hour given how late it is already," Castle offers. "I will advance you half. Twelve thousand five hundred."

"That is entirely unnecessary, Richard," a surprised Sam Carlos counters. "We already have an agreement in –"

"In principle, I understand," Castle finishes the thought for him. "But as we both know – this is business. And as you said – you cannot make exceptions. Set a precedent. I know enough to know that something like that can come back to haunt you."

Once again, Sam Carlos is smiling – at the honesty and the candor of the ex-author. Yes, this conversation could have gone very, very differently.

"I have to say, I appreciate your mindset, Mr. Castle," Carlos tells him.

"Oh, we're back to Mr. Castle now?" Castle chuckles, and Sam Carlos joins him in their little joke.

"Let us just say that this conversation went much more smoothly than I had dared imagine, and leave it at that," Carlos tells him.

"Truth be told, I kind of almost had a wee bit of a heart attack when I saw your incoming call," Castle laughs.

"Well, we certainly can't have that," Carlos tells him, taking on a more serious tone. "At least not until we get you a better antidote."

Unbeknownst to the mobster, his simple statement has re-opened a can of worms for Richard Castle. With the door cracked, Castle pushes forward.

"You know, since we are being so nice and civil with each other," Castle interrupts, "I have to ask you, Sam. And I don't really know how to ask this. It's something that has been bothering me, it has been troubling me for the past two –"

"Rick, no!" Kate interrupts, now standing. She knows where this conversation is going to go. Nothing good can come of this conversation. She quickly takes the phone away from Castle, walking quickly toward the window away from the man she loves.

"Hi Sam," she begins. "Forget what you just heard. Rick is just –"

"Ah, Beckster," Sam greets her, bringing a smile to her face. It doesn't last long.

"You know I don't forget anything," he tells Kate. "And I know exactly what is bugging my friend next to you."

"Really?" Kate asks, somewhat surprised.

"He is thinking about the Councilman, is he not?" Carlos asks.

"Well . . . well, yes, yes he is, Sam – but don't –"

"And he is wondering why – given who I am and given the things that I do – he is wondering why the Councilman has not paid a price for his transgressions against the city, against forty-nine women . . . against him," Carlos continues.

Kate is quiet for a couple of seconds, now quite astonished at the new direction this phone call has taken.

"Yes," she offers as a single answer.

"And what makes you think he has not paid a very staggering price?" Carlos asks. He disconnects the call before she can respond. She stands next to the window, staring at the phone for a brief instant. She turns and almost bumps into Castle, who has quietly come up behind her.

"What did he say?" Castle asks.

She stares at him for a second or two, then glances out the window.

"He strongly inferred that Councilman Barry Adams has paid a terrible price for what he did. To those women," she tells him. Then she turns back to face him.

'To you," she concludes.

A raised eyebrow is all he gives her for the moment. He is ready to ask another question when she beats him to the punch.

"Did I hear you say you are going to pay him twelve thousand dollars?" she asks, an incredulous look painted across her face.

"Twelve thousand and five hundred dollars to be exact," he replies.

"Are you sure that is . . . wise?" she asks.

"It won't be the first time I have paid off someone in order to get what we want, babe," he tells her. "A hundred thousand dollars back in New York to Dick Coonan comes to mind."

Her mind takes her back to the payment that he made – that he was willing to make – for her when they were still on uncertain footing, still figuring this thing out . . . long before either realized what was really brewing between them.

"I suppose you're right," she admits.

"I won't ask Cynthia for that kind of money right now," he continues. "And who knows what her mindset is going to be toward paying that back anytime soon anyway. If I have to pay the rest, I have to pay the rest."

"That's incredibly generous and magnanimous of you, babe – even for you," she tells him, ever amazed at his generosity.

"Not really," he surprises her. "It's more pragmatic than anything else. Sam cannot allow someone to withhold money from him. He just can't. I understand that. Something like that gets out. Then people try him. They test him. They try to take advantage of him. You think he has a scorched earth kind of reputation now? I cannot even imagine what he would be willing to do to erase a misperception about him."

She shudders at the thought, agreeing with him once again as the door opens, as Dr. Samantha Peraza and Dawn Harrison walk in first, followed by Cynthia Romaines. Both notice that the woman, although flustered, is looking much better than earlier.

"We just finished processing Mrs. Romaines in," the doctor tells the duo. "Dawn will be taking her to her quarters in just a moment. She just wanted a cup of coffee."

"Do you mind if I come in?" Mrs. Romaines asks, glancing around the room nervously.

Castle nods his head, offering a small smile to the still-distraught woman.

"Not at all, Cynthia," he replies affably. "Until you decide otherwise, this is your home. I hope you will like the place. You will be safe here, I promise you."

"I believe you," is her simple reply. Given what she has gone through, and what she knows about this place, it is the most honest answer she can give.

He turns back to Kate, as both face the window staring outside. Both are still lost in the phone conversation that has just finished with Sam Carlos, when a cup of hot coffee slips between the still-jittery fingers of Cynthia Romaines, and shatters on the floor with a loud noise.

Kate Beckett hears it before she sees it. She hears the soft gurgling noise in the back of his throat, as the accidental and surprising sound of the shattering cup hauntingly does its work . . . and Richard Castle falls slowly to the ground, unconscious on his feet, barely caught by Kate before hitting the ground. Dawn Harrison is by their side immediately, limping faster than she ought to help him lay him down gently.

"No!" Dawn whispers, a despondent look on her face, while a now terrified Cynthia Romaines looks on, not understanding what has happened.

Dawn and Kate lays him softly down, and the tears are coming quickly now, as Kate realizes that two weeks of memories are now gone.

More than that – memories of a certain phone call – and a certain agreement – are now gone. It takes no time for her to make up her mind.

"You have him for a minute?" she asks Dawn, who nods her head while stifling a sob of her own.

Kate is dialing the phone number before she can even think about it. It only gets two rings before he answers.

"Katie. Twice in one night?" Sam asks.

"Sam, we have a problem," she tells him, and Sam Carlos realizes sadly that his night is still not over yet.

.

**A/N:** I apologize for the long delay. Hospice is here now with my father-in-law. Life just keeps getting more interesting by the day. I hope to have the next chapter up soon.


	10. Chapter 10

**Blank: Chapter 10**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

_**2:12 a.m. on April 17, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

"And what new problem is that, Kate?" Sam Carlos asks, dropping the more familiar 'Katie' in favor of a more formal approach. It is late at night . . . or early in the morning. Regardless, it was a night that Sam Carlos thought – and was really hoping – would find him safely nestled in bed at a reasonable hour, for once.

"Rick," she tells him. "He just collapsed again. Just a moment ago."

Sam Carlos is quiet for a few uncomfortable seconds, mulling his response before he finally replies.

"I have to say, Kate, that this collapse certainly is unfortunate – and impeccable – timing," he states as he walks from his bedroom toward his study at his Presidio home. He looks for the bottle of scotch that all but seems to be calling his name now.

"It is certainly coincidental, given the details of your conversation with Rick a moment ago," Kate admits. "Which is why I am calling you at this moment."

She cannot see her friend's face soften on the other end as the mobster nods his head as he takes a deep breath running a hand through his hair. He pours himself a drink into the glass, and takes a quick swallow.

"I overheard some of the conversation," Kate continues, "and Rick brought me up to speed on a few things before he collapsed – such as his plans to pay you a down payment for . . ."

She stops her conversation, glancing back at Cynthia Romaines, noticing the woman staring between her and the ex-author on the floor. Dawn Harrison continues to cradle his head. Quickly, Kate moves further away towards the window, lowering her voice as she continues.

"Such as his down payment to you to repay you what is owed by our most recent newcomer to the complex," she continues. "What Rick did have time to do is share details with me. I know he is planning on giving you twelve thousand and five hundred dollars. What else you discuss? What else did either of you commit to? Because as you know, when he comes to, he won't remember anything about your conversation."

"That is very admirable of –" Carlos begins, but is interrupted.

"Come to think of it," she interrupts, "He's not going to remember anything about Cynthia here, or her husband, or . . . or anything from the last two weeks," she finishes, her voice slightly breaking at the end.

"My arrangement with Richard remains intact, Katie," Carlos tells his old friend. "As for details of our conversation, outside his commitment, and my acceptance, I don't think there was anything else to concern you. Those were simply words from him to me that helped tighten our relationship."

"Rick won't remember any of those words, though, Sam," Kate broaches.

"But _I_ will remember," Sam reminds her. "Further, his words simply articulate who he is, and that will not change because of a couple of lost weeks."

"Richard will want to know –"

"And he and I will have that conversation again, Katie," Carlos interrupts. "I promise you. For now, the most important thing is ensuring that this incident does not repeat itself again. Which means that I need to provide more incentive to another friend of ours to expedite the availability of a certain antidote."

Sam Carlos disconnects the call before Kate can respond. She is left staring at her phone as if it is a foreign object in her hand. Abrupt disconnects are not uncommon with Carlos, but this is the second disconnect of this type with her friend in the last ten minutes. That's a lot even for him, and she cannot shake the feeling that there is something else here. She idly wonders what he means by 'incentive', but quickly puts such thoughts out of her head as another thought hits her.

"Alexis," she thinks to herself.

Yeah, the younger Castle will definitely want to know what is going on, and it does not matter that it is just after two in the morning.

"I would want to know right away," she says out loud to herself as she walks back toward her lover, who still lies unconscious on the floor. "She will want to know, too."

"What is going on?" Cynthia Romaines asks, interrupting Kate's thoughts. The eyes of the complex's newest guest are still wide from the shock of the benefactor of her new home suddenly dropping unconscious on the floor before her.

"What happened to Mr. Castle?" she asks again. "Is he ill? Shouldn't someone be calling 911? Why isn't anyone –"

"He's fine, Mrs. Romaines," Kate tells her a bit too abruptly, and then quickly corrects herself.

"He is going to be fine, Cynthia," Kate repeats, her tone softened now. "This is something that . . . happens from time to time."

Kate quickly kneels on the floor next to Dawn Harrison, and the security guard at the complex quickly moves to the side, holding Richard Castle's head in her hands until Kate is positioned behind his head. Once Kate has his head in her hands, Dawn slowly pulls herself up to a standing position.

"Get her out of here," Kate whispers to Harrison, "and then get yourself horizontal as well. This isn't helping your leg, Dawn."

Maybe it's the late hour, but Harrison nods her head in agreement without any argument. The fact that she does so without any push-back tells Kate that the woman is – in fact – likely in a bit of pain at the moment.

"I won't argue with you there, Kate," Dawn replies. "I will get take her to her quarters. I'm guessing you have it from here?"

"I do," Kate nods. "Thanks for your help here."

"Keep me posted, and let me –"

"Not to worry, Dawn, I will text you when he is back awake."

"Awake with no memories?" Dawn states, half asking but already knowing the answer.

"No memories for the past two weeks, no," Kate answers, sadly.

Harrison slowly walks out, glancing at her watch to verify the time. She places a hand softly on the back of Mrs. Romaines, to guide her out of the room before she stops and looks back.

"Stupid question, I know, Kate, but are you going to be all right?" Dawn asks.

Kate offers her a grateful smile, waving the security guard off.

"I will be fine, because he is going to be fine," Kate tells her. "That's all that matters."

Dawn nods her head and quickly steers Cynthia Romaines down the hallway. A few seconds pass before Kate takes her eyes away from the empty door and now brings her eyes up to Dr. Samantha Peraza, who is similarly on her knees at Richard Castle's side.

"Two weeks?" the doctor asks, the sadness evident in her eyes.

"Two weeks," Kate replies in acknowledgement.

"It's not fair," Richard Castle's longtime friend remarks. "Richard has gone through so much . . . in so little time. It's just not fair."

"Strange to hear you talk about fair, given all you see on a daily basis," Kate states sadly. "Not that you will get any disagreement from me."

"How long?" Dr. Peraza asks, glancing at her oversized watch.

"Should be another ten, eleven minutes, I would guess," Kate answers. "Which reminds me . . . can you reach into his jacket pocket and retrieve his cell phone for me, Samantha?"

Without hesitation, the doctor complies. She reaches into his empty left jacket pocket, her actions coming naturally before she chuckles, remembering that her ex-author friend is left-handed.

"There it is," she remarks as she reaches now into his right jacket pocket. She quickly hands the phone to Kate.

"So, I have to ask, Kate," the good doctor questions, "given everything that is happening right now in front of us, why do you need Richard's phone?"

"There is something in here that Rick is going to want to see," Kate replies. "Something he is going to need to see."

"I take it Richard has prepared for this," Samantha states.

"Well, you know Rick," Kate smiles sadly.

"Yes, I do," Samantha smiles back. "We both do. So, tell me . . . what could our good friend here possibly want and need to see on his phone when he awakens? And please don't tell me you are getting ready to go all 50 First Dates on me."

"Well, you know Rick," Kate smiles again, and this time it brings a bit of laughter to both women. It is a surreal moment. Richard Castle lies unconscious – for a few more moments – atop Kate's lap, his head in her hands, while both women kneel with him, laughing. Both recognize the need for laughter, the need for a bit of levity given the circumstances. This night is going to get worse before it gets better.

Quickly placing his phone on the ground next to her, Kate takes her own phone out once again, and quickly finds Alexis' contact information. Hitting the icon of the young woman's face, she gives it three rings when Alexis' nervous voice greets her.

"What's happened, Kate?" the groggy but now awake young redhead asks. Yeah, she knows that Kate doesn't call at two-something in the morning just for giggles.

"Your Dad," Kate begins. "He's going to be fine, Alexis, but he had another episode, just a few minutes ago. I know it's late – or early or whatever, but we all agreed that whenever possible, we would get everyone together whenever –"

"I'm on my way, Kate," Alexis interrupts. "You are still at the complex?"

"Yes, we are in the –"

Her words stop when she realizes that Alexis has disconnected the call as the young woman rushes out of the house.

"People have got to stop hanging up on me tonight," Kate muses aloud, as she glances back down at the man underneath her. She picks up his phone and immediately goes into his photo/video library and opens the folder entitled "Reawakening". She smiles as she thinks about their discussion – just last week – when they created this folder and she recorded him giving a talk to himself – a talk that both of them hoped would not be necessary, but ultimately knew would be.

"It should be any minute now," Samantha tells her, as the doctor strokes her long-time friend's hand when a thought hits her.

"Did anything important happen in the last two weeks that he won't remember?" Samantha asks. "Were there any life-altering discussions or decisions, Kate?"

Kate allows a single tear to fall down her cheek, landing on the forehead of Richard Castle. Quickly, that single tear builds a strength, almost an anger in the ex-detective.

"Every conversation we have is important these days, Samantha," Kate finally speaks. "For this very reason right here," she continues, nodding down to the unconscious man.

"Every conversation we have is important."

.

**A/N:** So much has happened for all of us. An election is now behind us, a virus is still with us, and our house is emptier by one person now, as my father-in-law left this planet peacefully and is now safely in Heaven. It has been difficult, as he lived here in our house with us for the last ten years. It is strange not hearing his voice, hearing his laughter. He went out on his own terms, though, here at the house in his own bed. We find great solace in that. I apologize for the delay, as so much was going on. I finished the book I was writing (INDIVISIBLE) and so now I am finishing this story. I'm posting multiple chapters simultaneously since it has been so long, and I already have thoughts on the next story in this AU. But we will finish this one first. God bless all of you.


	11. Chapter 11

**Blank: Chapter 11**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

_**2:20 a.m. on April 17, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

Both women have been quiet for the past six or seven minutes, each in their own thoughts. They know the confused state that Richard Castle will awaken into in the next minute or so. With each passing minute, the clarity of words that Kate planned to share with the man she loves have faded. Now, she is beginning to feel the pangs of panic, as she no longer knows exactly what to say once he comes back to them.

The stirring underneath her fingertips startles her back into the moment.

"He's coming around, Sam," she quickly tells the doctor who still kneels alongside her.

Somehow, the doctor senses the uncertainty in her friend who kneels with her, and so she encourages her as much as she can.

"This isn't the first time this has happened, Kate," Dr. Samantha Peraza reminds her. "You know what to say. You love this man. He loves you. Speak from your heart. Surely you and Richard have planned for this possibility."

Kate nods her head rapidly, and holds Richard Castle's head firmly with one hand, while her right hand quickly reaches out to the good doctor, finding her hand and giving it a grateful squeeze. Just in time, too, as suddenly Castle's eyes open, blinking against the bright light from the ceiling light fixture above. Thankfully, the whole vomiting bit has been eradicated by the antidote.

Sadly, as both women understand, the memory loss has not.

"Wha – What happened? Did I pass out?" a confused Castle asks.

"How did I get on the floor?" he continues as he glances around. Suddenly, a bit of panic sets in on the ex-author, as he realizes he is no longer in Chinatown, and has no idea whatsoever how he got back here to the complex, which he easily recognizes.

"Kate, what is –"

"Hold on babe," Kate interrupts. "I know you're frightened, and there is a good explanation for this. But I think it is best you hear about it from someone else."

"Someone else?" Castle asks, as the frustration begins to overtake the confusion. "Who?"

"You," Kate tells him, as she reaches for his mobile phone, and with the folder open and file selected, she simply hits the PLAY icon. Suddenly, Richard Castle's face takes over the small screen, and the ex-author's crystal-clear voice begins speaking . . . along with the trademark smirk that used to bug her to no end, but now brings a smile to her face.

"Well, Ricky boy, if you are watching this, then it's happened again," Castle's voice and face begin on the video that plays on the phone.

"You must be wondering what 'it' is that has happened again," the voice continues. "Well, it is better if I tell you a story. We both know you always appreciate a good story . . . especially if you're the author."

For her part, Dr. Samantha Peraza feels as if she is having an out-of-body experience, watching the proceedings unfold in front of her. Kate, on the other hand, is simply focused on Castle – the real Castle, not the phone version. She already knows what the phone version is saying. She was there, holding the phone recording the story just over a week ago when they both decided that this would be the best way to bring him back to full understanding if . . . well, when another occurrence happened. They both knew this would happen.

In a way, she is happy it happened now. That means only two weeks have been lost. Far worse if this happened months later, when what would seem to be an entire lifetime together would be lost in the winds. She shakes these thoughts away as she listens to the story being told to the man she loves.

"So, here's the deal," Castle's phone persona continues. "Robbie Johnson, the husband of Karen Marks was murdered. Back around the 2nd or 3rd of April. April 2012. He was murdered in a very brutal fashion. Embalmed, and left propped up with a guitar down at the House of Wax down on the Wharf."

"That's kind of cool," the real Richard Castle remarks, already fulling invested in the story, as both he and Kate knew he would be. The phone persona has paused for a few seconds, as if expecting some type of rhetorical response from the author to this news.

"Dark, but cool," Castle continues.

"I knew you'd think this would be cool," the phone persona continues, drawing a chuckle from Richard Castle, and an eye roll from both women who still kneel on the floor alongside him.

"Wait a second, you said April 2nd or 3rd. That's two weeks ago," Castle suddenly realizes. "He said two weeks ago –" he repeats to Kate, who puts a finger over his lips to quiet the man.

"Time for that later, for now, just watch and listen," Kate tells him. An almost boyish, frowning pout paints his face, bringing another chuckle to both women as the story continues to unfold from the phone.

"Because of the manner in which the murder occurred, Karen Marks was the first suspect," the phone video continues. "Sandra Clooney, our esteemed mayor paid a personal visit to our complex to give us the news. Long story short, we followed the clues that told us the last place Robbie Johnson had been seen was a massage parlor in Chinatown. Now, before you get all excited, that's where this story takes a darker turn . . . darker for you. For me. Damn, this is confusing."

The threesome on the floor chuckle again, all but confirming for Kate that this approach was – indeed – the best way to break the news to Castle.

"We – you and Kate – went to the massage parlor that night," the phone version continues, "and while we were there, you were drugged. I was drugged. This drug simulates death. You dropped dead just outside the parlor at the car. And when I say dead, I mean real dead. As in paramedics pronounced you dead with a Certificate of Death after unsuccessfully trying to revive you. But the problem was, you were only mostly dead, not all the way dead."

"Oooh, Princess Bride, I love this," the real Castle remarks. He receives a smack to the forehead from the woman he loves for his efforts.

"Quiet and listen, Rick!" she almost hisses to him, still smiling though. She knows – they both knew – that humor would be his life-saving device.

"So even though everyone thought you were dead, you awoke – I woke up – in the morgue, on the slab, on the table inside one of the cabinets. And yeah, that was both cool and creepy at the same time. You . . . I . . . we kicked the cabinet door open and pushed out, fell naked on the ground. That's when Kate and Mike and the attending doctor walked in."

"Mike must have liked that," Castle chuckles. This time, Kate doesn't even try to rebuke him.

"Now, the bad news. You have fallen into this almost dead state quite a few times," the phone video informs him. "Kate will fill in the rest of the blanks, and you and I prepared a diary of sorts, that helps you understand everything that has happened since that time. Yeah, that is the bad news. Every time this happens, you and I have no memory of anything that has happened since the night at the massage parlor. Every time this happens and you fall sort of dead, you will wake up, but you wake up with no memories of anything since that night. It won't matter if a day has passed, a month has passed or a year has passed . . . when it happens, everything is lost to you. To me. To us."

The phone version stops there, rubbing his hands through the thick mane of hair on his head. He knows the man watching this recording. He knows himself. He knows this is a good pausing point, to give himself – the man watching – time to process what has just been said. He looks away for a moment, as if counting off the numbers. Finally, after about ten seconds, he continues the story.

"As you are watching this now, I have no idea how much time has passed, but know that Sam Carlos is working on an antidote. Well, a better antidote. The one he gave me – gave you – eliminated some nasty side effects –"

"And by nasty, we mean fatal," Kate interjects.

"– But the memory loss is still there. And no, Sam is not the one behind the drug. But you know Sam, he was able to run down who was behind it fairly quickly – within a day or two as I understand it. And now he is using his charming ways to make sure that a better, more final antidote is being worked on and given to you – to me – as soon as possible. We both know what I mean by 'charming' when it comes to Sam. Let's hope no one is getting killed in the process. In the meantime, open your computer and read the diary, the journal. It will tell you as many of the thoughts I could capture that has happened between now and that night at the parlor. Things that happened, important thoughts that you had – I had. Decisions you and Kate – Kate and I – have made. I tried to capture everything important that happened each day, so that your memory – my memory – can at least have some pseudo memories. Because even though you don't remember them, they are real for Kate. For Alexis. For Mike and Samantha and everyone there."

The video pauses for another few seconds, before his phone persona signs off.

"Talk to Kate, and make sure you talk to Alexis. Both can fill you in on anything else important."

With that, the video stops and Kate hands the phone to Richard Castle. For a brief instant, he does not hold out his hand to take the object, as if there has been some offence committed. It is just for a second however, as he finally reaches out and takes the device.

"Even I couldn't make this up," he now grumbles to himself, the cool factor of the whole proceedings now decidedly in the rearview mirror. Reality has ground such thoughts to a fine mist, and now he is facing that reality square in the face.

"Help me up?" he asks the two women alongside him. Both quickly get to their feet, and slowly pull him to a standing position.

"Easy there, Richard," Samantha Peraza tells him. "You're going to be a bit dizzy for a few more minutes."

For a few seconds, Castle is quiet, just taking in his surroundings. He's at the complex. He risks a glance at his watch.

"2:34 in the morning?" he exclaims in surprise, quickly realizing the ramifications. "If I am here at this time of the night – or morning – and both of you are still here at this time, then something must be going on. This isn't a normal night, is it?"

"Well, what exactly is 'normal' for this place?" his friend Samantha asks, smiling, making quotation marks in the air.

"Astute as always, babe," Kate offers. "You have plenty of time to read your journal. You will get a lot from that. But for now, let me tell you about Cynthia Romaines, our newest guest here to the Castles. Oh, and you owe Sam Carlos twelve thousand five hundred dollars."

"Excuse me?" Castle questions.

"All in good time, babe," she chuckles. "All in good time. You've been out for two weeks. There is a lot to bring you up to speed on."

"Yeah, but twelve thousand dollars? To Sam? What have I gotten myself into this time?"

"Twelve thousand five hundred dollars," she laughs. "And no, you didn't do anything crazy . . . just your normal generous self. I will bring you up to speed. But for now, Let's get you walking, get you something to drink –"

"Non-alcoholic," Dr. Peraza adds.

"Spoilsport," Castle grumbles, bringing a smile to all three.

With that, the door burst open suddenly, and an out-of-breath Alexis Castle bursts into the room, still wearing pajamas and a robe.

"Yeah, that kind of night," Castle muses to himself as he takes his daughter into his chest, holding and hugging tightly.

.

**A/N:** I am praying health and safety over all of you, all of us. And I am hoping that we learn to disagree without dividing. We used to know how to do that in this country.


	12. Chapter 12

**Blank: Chapter 12**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

_**3:00 a.m. on April 17, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

The small light in his office barely illuminates the dark office where Richard Castle sits at his desk, his feet up on the table. A cup of hot coffee smokes before him, a much-needed beverage to keep him awake and his sense keen.

Kate Beckett has already left, driving home with Alexis to get the young woman to bed. He has promised to be home as soon as possible, but right now his priority is his memory. The past two weeks are still somewhat of a blank page. Yes, his alter-ego gave a spirited video version of what is happening, and Kate has filled in the blanks with much of the 'what'.

He knows the Councilman Barry Adams was behind the drug that has stolen two weeks of his life. He knows that Adams was also behind the raid on his complex. He knows that Andrew Klein, an old college acquaintance of Kate's, is the one who actually developed the drug and is working on the antidote. Those are the 'what' elements.

What is missing are_ his_ thoughts, _his_ musings, _his_ wonderings. That's what he hopes to find in the journal, on the screen laid out in front of him. And there is no time like the present. In his mind, the sooner some semblance of memories return – in this case – artificially, the more normal his life will be. And no, to Richard Castle's way of thinking, this is not something that can wait.

So here he sits, and so far he has made it through two days of journal writings. But it is this entry that Alexis has told him to focus on. And good thing, too. His notes tell him that he was . . . is . . . prepared to ask Kate to marry him. He smiles, because yeah, he has lost two weeks of memories, but the reality is that he knows that this is something he has thought about in great depth over the past couple of months.

Sure, she has only been out here basically four to five months. Sure, they agreed to date a while. Well, in his notes, he states that it has been 'a while', and his current self agrees with that assessment. He offers a glance up toward the ceiling, at the heavens beyond, grateful that he decided to create this journal that captures his thoughts. They are what is important. What is and has been happening isn't important. He can get that from Kate, from Mike, from Alexis, from Samantha. But none of them know his inner thoughts. He nods his head in satisfaction that he decided to capture those inner thoughts, and idly wonders whose idea it really was.

Was it his idea? Kate's? Alexis, perhaps. These are the things that bother him. He knows that he has not written down everything. Only those things that – at that time – he felt were pertinent, were critical.

"What's not here, though?" he thinks to himself. Quickly, he pushes those thoughts away. He was planning on proposing. This weekend. That much he knows, and in his heart, he knows it is the right thing to do.

Once again, just as he did some eight hours ago last night, he spins his chair – almost in the exact same way – until it faces his credenza. He removes a small key – his journal has told him exactly where the key is located. The key unlocks a drawer, and there it is. A small jewelry box. One that will change his life, change her life.

He opens the box, admiring the single platinum band with a three-carat princess cut diamond. For him, it is like it is the first time he is seeing it. In the greatest of ironies, he gets to relive that eureka-like moment when he found the perfect ring for his hopeful-bride-to-be.

"Geesh, is the weekend too far away?" he muses out loud. After all, it is only by the grace of God that he used such foresight to write to himself, to record a video for himself. To remind himself of his proposal plans. To remind himself of the existence of this ring.

He reads a little more, now understanding that he and Alexis have an agreement that she will be there, recording everything this weekend.

"Smart to have Alexis video record everything," he thinks out loud. "The proposal, the wedding . . . all of these things that I might forget if this happens again." He laughs out loud, totally unaware of the countless times he has had these exact same thoughts in the past ten days. He just doesn't remember.

He takes a long swallow of the hot coffee on his desk, and then settles in, reading more of the personal notes he has left himself. Reading, and re-reading, trying to think of his mindset when he wrote these words, looking for ways to somehow absorb everything like a sponge, holding tight to what is now new information to him.

.

_**Roughly the same time, 3:00 a.m. on April 17, 2012 at Jennifer Blackard's residence in the Mission District in San Francisco, California**_

The incessant ringing of the telephone on her nightstand brings a frown to Detective Jennifer Blackard's very groggy face. She has barely gotten to sleep and now someone is waking her? At three in the morning? This is ridiculous, even for a cop.

As she pulls herself out of her sleep state however, she recognizes the ring tone, and immediately wills herself awake. Kate Beckett would not call this late unless it was important.

"Yeah, Kate, what's up?" she answers, trying to sound wide awake.

"I'm sorry to call, Jen, really I am," Kate begins. "But we all agreed that if it happened again, we would let everyone in the inner circle know."

Blackard feels the goosebumps immediately cool off her arms and back. Perhaps it is just the knowledge that misfortune has once again struck her new good friend, the ex-author. Or perhaps it is the realization that they – Castle and Kate – consider her to be a part of their inner circle. Already. After only a few months.

Regardless, she shakes the good feeling away. This is a not a good news phone call. Not by a long shot.

"I'm so sorry, Kate," the SFPD cop tells her, swinging her legs around and to the floor, pulling herself out of the bed.

"Where are you?" Jennifer asks. "I can be there in –"

"No, Jen," Kate interrupts. "I didn't tell you so that you can get out of bed and come here. I just told you, you are important to us, you are part of what we are trying to do here, so we wanted you to know."

It surprises Kate, and brings a smile to her face as she hears her own words. Words that take ownership of what Richard Castle is doing out here. A realization that she really is a part of this. That he has completely included her – and anyone else that she – Kate – feels needs to be involved.

"Sam will want to know," Jennifer begins. "But maybe we should hold off on saying anything to him just yet."

"Too late for that," Kate tells her, as she, too, takes a swallow of hot coffee. She plans on being awake when Rick returns, and there is no telling how long that is going to take.

"Sam and Rick had just made an arrangement on the phone, just minutes before Rick succumbed again," Kate continues. "So, it was important to let Sam know what had happened."

"I understand," the detective tells her. "But I really don't want to have to talk Sam off a violent ledge again tonight. We both know how he can get when he feels . . . well, you know."

She leaves the statement hanging in the air, as both women know exactly what she is talking about.

"Our mutual friend down in the valley had better hurry up with a better antidote," Jennifer remarks. "I would hate to see Sam's way of motivating anyone."

"I'm afraid we are probably too late on that front also," Kate muses aloud. "He mentioned providing motivation or incentive as he hung up on me."

"He hung up on you?" Jennifer laughs.

"Twice. In one night," Kate adds, then changes the subject.

"Speaking of," Kate begins, "how are you and our favorite ex-Cardinal doing these days?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Kate," her friend replies. "Believe it or not, we talk or text every day – once in the morning, once a night. It has been like this for the past week or more. Ever since – well – you know . . . the event."

"That's good, Jen," Kate remarks. "You are good for Sam. You make him more . . . I don't know . . ."

"Human is what Willie said," Jen states, finishing Kate's thoughts.

"Yes, that is how I would say it also," Kate agrees.

The two women are quiet for a few seconds, as if each knows what the other is thinking, what the other is struggling with. Both of them have the same thoughts, the same internal struggles every day that they consider their old college friend.

"I feel guilty sometimes, Jen," Kate begins.

"I feel guilty that I don't feel guilty, Kate," the detective responds.

"That's exactly what I mean!" Kate exclaims. "I – you and I – we should both have a much harder time with this than we do. I mean, Sam represents everything you and I oppose."

"Not everything, per se," Jennifer disagrees. "I know Willie, Willie used to be a cop."

"I know," Kate tells her.

"Willie helped me see it differently," Jennifer continues. "Sam, you, me . . . we actually have much of the same values. We are on opposite sides of the fence, yes. But as Willie helped me see it, that fence is our values. The fence is the same. Our values are the same. It is what each of us are willing to do to protect those values, the rules we are willing or unwilling to break to see those values in place – that is what is different."

Kate is quiet, mulling the words over for a moment, while her friend continues.

"It doesn't make anything he does right," Jennifer tells her. "It doesn't give him an excuse, a pass. It just . . ."

"It just _is_," Kate finishes her thought. "One fence, one set of values, vastly different methods to protect those values."

"In the end, I asked Willie about it, because Willie was never a dirty cop," Jennifer tells her. "Willie was a good man, a good cop, who just got tired of all the bullshit. So when he explained this whole idea of a fence to me, I really didn't buy it, because like I said, he was a good cop. I asked him how he could kill people as he does now. Do you want to know what he told me?"

"What did he say?" Kate asks, genuinely interested. She, too, likes the big man that Sam Carlos depends on.

"He told me – and I quote – 'I killed people for the department, now I kill people for Sam . . . same fence, just different sides."

"I can't agree with that," Kate remarks.

"Neither can I," Jennifer agrees. "That's when I decided that this is just too big. I can't get my head around it. The universe has given us a great friend. It has given me a . . . well, something more. I don't know what Sam and I are, or were, or will ever be. It's just too big for me."

"I understand," Kate nods her head on the other side of the conversation. "I've never told you this – I told Rick – but were it not for Sam, were it not for an unexpected conversation Sam had with me a few years ago, I would have fallen to the opposite side of that fence myself. Sam and I went through the same loss, and I almost joined him on that other side."

"You're kidding!" Jennifer exclaims, truly surprised.

"Not kidding at all," Kate tells her good friend. "He pulled be back from the edge. So, when you say it is just too big, I get it. I agree. I think that is why I don't have as big a problem as I should. I guess that is why I can so easily – and Jen, I do mean _easily_ look the other way. And that's what makes me guilty. How easily I can do this."

Both women are quiet again for a few seconds before Jennifer Blackard signs off.

"Thanks for calling, Kate," she tells her friend. "I mean it. Thanks for letting me know about Rick, for including me. And thanks for this conversation. It was . . . I don't know . . . kind of cleansing. I didn't realize how much I needed this conversation. And I mean have this conversation _with you_."

"I know what you mean, Jen," Kate smiles on the other end. "I will keep you posted on Rick."

"Do that," Jen tells her, clicking off and lying back into her bed, pulling the covers over her head. She smiles, with a feeling that she is going to sleep well for the first time in a long time.

Kate, for her part, stares at her phone, chuckling.

"Another person just hung up on me tonight!"

.

**A/N:** I am trying to finish this story quickly. It has been so long and I know that I owe everyone closure on this one. Thanks for those of you still here on this.


	13. Chapter 13

**Blank: Chapter 13**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

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_**8:45 a.m. on Tuesday morning, April 17, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

The morning fog is still hanging over the Sausalito complex, rivaling even the most imaginative and descriptions Richard Castle – the author – could come up with. Said author sits in his office, marveling as he stares out the window at the thick mist which hovers some five to fifteen feet above the grounds, moving slowly and steadily. In reality, however, the philanthropist side of the man has his mind elsewhere.

He has gotten – maybe – four hours of sleep last night, here at the complex. He didn't bother going home. After his latest reawakening episode, he wanted to spend as much time as possible here in the office going through his journal, going through letters, going through notes – anything to recapture as much of his lost memories as possible.

It had occurred to him to go back to the source of his initial explanation – his mobile phone. In doing that, he has found dozens of pictures that evidently, he had taken over the past couple of weeks. Pictures of Kate, pictures of Alexis, more pictures of Kate. A few selfies with Kate. It forces a smile on his face to think how embedded in his life she has become.

"I need more of these," he thinks out loud to himself. "I need to start taking more. I can't take enough pictures. I can't have enough of these," he muses sadly, knowing that at any time, a host of memories can just disappear in an instant.

Kate had gone back to the house, making sure Alexis was not there alone overnight. Yes, the young woman is now eighteen and a senior in high school, just a few months away from her turn at Stanford. But given the last few months, what with kidnapped and sex-trafficked women along with her father being drugged in the most sinister manner, one can forgive Kate and Rick for being in helicopter mode for a bit longer.

As he sits watching the fog swim gracefully by, he glances down at the old school desk calendar that he still uses to track important events and smiles at the barely visible yellow dot that designates this coming Friday. His original plan of proposing to his ex-detective this weekend has been moved up. Forget the weekend, he is doing it tonight, this very night. And who can blame him? He wants to get this done, get a ring on her finger before he forgets everything yet again. He frowns at the sheer cruelty of the moment, realizing that this latest episode occurred literally days before his planned proposal. He can't risk it. He can't risk delaying any further.

"Damn thing is taking over my life," he thinks sadly to himself about the drug that still controls his system.

Thinking about the drug causes one Sam Carlos to come to mind, and without thinking, he pulls up Carlos' contact information on his phone and begins typing a message.

_CASTLE: I guess you heard I had another episode last night. Early this morning. Whatever. Any news on an updated antidote?_

As he is typing this text, a knocking on his door brings him back to the present moment.

"Come on in," he hollers toward the door, as he hits SEND, and glances again at his watch.

8:47 a.m.

Kate should be here any moment, but she wouldn't knock. The door opens and Mike Monroe sticks his head in.

"Company, Rick," Monroe tells the ex-author.

"Here?" Rick asks?

"Supposedly one of your investor contacts," Monroe replies. "Did you have a meeting I didn't know about?"

"I don't think so," Castle replies in kind, gazing down at his desk calendar to verify that – indeed – there is no appointment listed there for this morning.

"I'm surprised," Castle continues. "Perhaps it is someone wanting a cold-call look at their investment," he tells his security chief as he rises to his feet.

"Conference room?" Castle asks as he moves toward the door.

"Yep, just put them there," Monroe acknowledges. "You want any company on this?"

At that moment, Kate walks in, touching Mike on the shoulder.

"Is this a private party or can anyone join?" she asks, smiling.

"Well, not just anyone, but you my dear ex-detective, are welcome anytime," Castle replies, smiling as he gets to the door. Mike officiously moves backward, allowing Kate Beckett access into the room. A quick kiss between the two and Castle has grabbed her hand and is pulling her back out the door, with Mike Monroe bringing up the rear.

"Where are we going?" Kate asks.

"North Conference Room. Visitors," Castle answers. "Investors, no appointment, wanting what I am guessing is a candid, non-planned view of the facilities."

Kate offers a chuckle and a quick military salute to the man who now holds her hand as they walk. He responds with a salute reply himself, bringing laughter from the black man behind them.

"You two are a mess," he laughs aloud, and the trio is all smiles as they open the door to the North Conference Room The smiles come to an abrupt halt immediately as they see the Silicon Valley power couple sitting at the conference table waiting for them.

Andrew and Cassandra Klein both rise simultaneously from their sitting positions. The CEO for NuGenetix approaches Richard Castle with an outstretched hand in greeting.

He does not have time to avoid the massive left-handed cross from the owner of the Castles Complex, which takes both Kate Beckett and Mike Monroe by surprise. The punch lands squarely on the cheek of the CEO, who topples backward, knocking over a couple of chairs.

"_Well, so much for wondering if Richard Castle knows who created Andy's little drug,"_ Cassandra thinks to herself, immediately moving toward her husband who now lies on the ground, rubbing his cheek and jaw. Her husband is having a similar thought.

"Well, that answers that question," he mumbles to himself, just barely visible to his wife. He tries to roll to his side to grab ahold of the table and pull himself up, but that large form of Richard Castle is quickly standing over him.

Monroe is quickly at his side, as is Kate Beckett, both for different reasons. Monroe is looking to diffuse things, while Kate is definitely not. All three are aware of the involvement of the couple below them.

Kate knows because she has heard this information directly from Sam Carlos. Castle heard it second-hand from Kate, then first-hand from Carlos over a morning breakfast roughly with the mobster and his second-in-command a couple of weeks ago. Regardless, how he originally heard has been rendered moot, as all of those memories are now gone, and it is only his diary journal of sorts, and subsequent conversations with Kate that brought that knowledge back to the ex-author.

Mike Monroe, and everyone else on staff at the complex, knows this directly from conversations with Kate and Castle – two weeks prior – while Castle still had those memories.

"Hold on Rick," Monroe tells him as he grabs Castle by the shoulder. At the same time, Kate Beckett is of decidedly different mindset.

"What the hell are you here for, and why in hell do you think you would be even remotely welcome to this place, your million-dollar donation notwithstanding?" she begins, her voice rising with literally every other word. Cassandra and her husband both view the simmering couple above them with a new mindset, both now questioning the wisdom of just showing up here at the complex without an appointment.

"I was going to say 'good morning'," the CEO begins, pulling himself to his feet. "However, it is obvious that one of my questions has been answered. And to be honest, Cassy and I are here to answer some of your questions."

"You've got balls showing up here," Monroe tells the couple, tightening his grip on one Richard Castle. "Not a lot of brains, but balls, I will give you that much."

The visiting couple can see the constant seething that grows within their host, and quickly begin their rehearsed speech. True, the ex-novelist is pissed, but he is not dangerous. Sam Carlos is dangerous, and Carlos is the whole reason they are here in the first place.

"Mr. Castle," Andrew Klein begins, still rubbing his jaw, "before you hit me again – and that's a pretty mean left hand you've got there, let me explain why we are here."

"It actually is for your own benefit, Mr. Castle," Cassy interjects, again as rehearsed. "It was never my husband's intention that the drug that afflicts you would ever be used before clinical trials were finished and we had FDA approvals," she lies, knowing that this was never in the plans.

"The reason we came here was to apologize," Andrew Klein continues, as planned. The story they want to present – aside from Cassy's little lie about clinical trials and FDA approvals – is to stay as close to the truth as possible, and be as transparent as possible, to be as apologetic as possible . . . and hope that this will get back to one Sam Carlos. Both know how unpredictable the San Francisco mobster can be, and both know that Carlos has taken a very personal interest in this situation.

Personal enough to inject Cassy with the drug in question.

Personal enough to shoot a city councilman's wife at point blank range in front of witnesses.

An impatient Sam Carlos wanting an update on the status of the antidote is top of mind with the Silicon Valley couple. That's the real reason for this morning's meeting. They are trying – through Richard Castle – to buy a little more time. Unfortunately, they are unaware of Castle's recent . . . reawakening.

"And yet somehow, your little plague pill made it into the hands of a particularly nasty client of yours," Castle remarks, still maintaining an aggressive posture with the couple.

"Well, technically it is actually an injection that –"

"What my husband meant to say, "Cassy interjects as she sees Richard Castle stiffen once more, "is that sometimes he has to do things for investors, show a little favor for investors that under normal circumstances, he would not do. Surely a philanthropist such as yourself – who clearly has to deal with investors and their special needs – knows of what I am speaking."

Reluctantly, Castle nods, giving the CEO a bit more courage to continue.

"Mr. Castle," Klein continues, "I am sorry. I am very, very sorry for what has happened to you. My drug is intended for a very specific purpose, and that purpose is still months – many months away. There is no way I would willingly put it into the market in its current form. But understand, when one of my investors comes to me with a request – a peek at a design, an unworking prototype – well, sometimes I have to make a decision against my better judgement. And that is what happened with Councilman Adams. He made a request, and despite my warnings and caveats, he persisted."

"That still doesn't explain why you would give something like this out, knowing what it could do," Kate interrupts. "It isn't worth it and it just doesn't make –"

"Kate," Cassy interrupts – counting and hoping on old college years to give her this allowance, "You know how many investors Mr. Castle has here. You've been to investor updates. I'm sure he has shown you the books on who has invested. You know these are the type of people . . ._ we_ are the type of people who know one another, who talk with one another . . . who _have influence_ over one another. Now imagine if one of us – _just one of us_ – decided we were unhappy with our investment in this little project out here. Imagine how much damage we could do with other investors. Now you understand Andrew's position. He gets Barry upset . . . Barry, who is a highly influential investor and politician. Now imagine the grenade that has just been thrown into Andrew's board room. Andrew could no more risk Barry Adams becoming upset than Mr. Castle here could risk with any of his investors here."

Seeing the subtle nod of the head from Richard Castle, who reluctantly is seeing the wisdom of her words gives Cassy permission to push forward.

"Mr. Castle – think about the staggering budget that I know it takes to run this place," Cassy continues. "Think about the investments it takes to make this work – not just this year, but next year, and the year after. And the year after. Now imagine one disgruntled investor, who takes another with him. What happens if a few million in investments disappears for you?"

Seeing the realization dawn on Kate Beckett's face energizes Andrew Klein to reassert himself.

"Now Mr. Castle, imagine all that . . . and now multiply it by 20," Klein tells him. "Now you have an idea of where I stand, of what I must do . . . given the hold my investors have over me. I can no more afford to anger or annoy even one of them than you can."

For a brief moment, Richard Castle stares deeply into the eyes of the Silicon Valley CEO and sees something different. Something . . . not sinister, but troubling. It is clear that this is a man who holds no love for those investors who by into his dream, with their money. He files the idle thought away for a later time.

Still, the words the CEO speaks ring true with Castle, as they do with Kate. Kate moves closer, grabbing a hold of Castle's hand.

"I can see your point," Castle admits. "And I suppose I owe you an apology for the punch."

"I wouldn't go that far," Kate tells him under her breath, but loud enough for all to hear. "The only one here who has been hurt has been Rick, here."

"That's not entirely true," Klein tells the group. "Mr. Castle was not the only one hurt . . . he was not the only one injected with my company's drug."

The five people in the room are quiet for a few seconds, before Mike Monroe is the first to notice. Cassandra Klein's eyes have fallen to the ground, and the woman who was actually driving the conversation has now retreated.

"You," Monroe almost whispers, pointing at the wife of the CEO. "You were injected?"

Both Castle and Kate turn into cartoon characters with raised eyebrows.

"How? Why?" Castle finally asks.

"Sam Carlos," Cassy finally tells the group. "He wanted to make sure that Andrew had a more . . . personal motivation to find an antidote for you, Mr. Castle. So, he injected me."

Everyone is quiet for a few additional seconds before Kate speaks up.

"Well, that sounds like Sam," she states. Both Kleins are taken aback with her lack of . . . empathy regarding the matter.

"Yes, it does, doesn't it," Castle agrees. "I am sorry for you, I truly am," he continues. "But it appears that our fortunes are now very much entwined for the time being."

"And while any of us can understand your predicament, Mr. Klein," Mike Monroe interjects, "and your sob story about investors does ring true to a point, you still gave a dangerous drug – the real drug, the working drug, not some safe, non-working prototype, to what we all now know to be a dangerous man."

"And while you may think you can hide safely behind your very sizable investment, and threaten us with going to other investors –"

"No, No, No, that is not what I meant," Cassy interjects, but Kate does not allow her to finish the thought.

"Trust me when I say that we – and in particular, this man –" she says, pointing to Mike Monroe, "are not the type of people you want to threaten."

That does it for the power couple, who were already wary of the sheer and harsh firepower that the security of this complex has demonstrated in the past.

"You will not come here and threaten us," Monroe adds.

The couple glance to Richard Castle, who smiles . . . but the smile is masked by a hard determination in his eyes.

"What they said," he remarks. With that, Richard Castle turns and leaves the room, pulling his hand away from Kate.

As he walks out the door, Kate stares at her old – and potentially ex- friends from Stanford of a long time ago before turning and walking toward the door herself. She turns to the couple one more time at the last minute.

"You know the way out," she tells them.

Mouths open, the Kleins stare at the now empty doorway before turning back to Mike Monroe.

"Richard Castle had another relapse. Last night. Two weeks of memories gone. Two weeks or work, of relationships, of promises made and decisions made . . . gone, "Monroe tells them. They try to reply but he continues.

"Rick is more than my boss," he continues. "He is a friend. An old friend. One who has given me a purpose. One who has given a hundred families here a . . . a resurrection of sorts."

Monroe turns and walks to the door way, and doesn't bother to turn and face the couple as he speaks from the doorway.

"Find an antidote. Fast. Sam Carlos is not the only person in this city you need to be worried about."

With that, the tall black man closes the door behind him, walking quickly down the hallway back toward Castle's office. Sure, perhaps that was an overstep. But as Castle said months ago during the raid on the complex – they want people to know that they can take care of themselves. They don't need the police. They don't need politicians.

And they don't need Sam Carlos.

The latter might not be entirely true, but that's the word they want to leave with the Kleins. It works, as the couple slowly fall back into their chairs in the now empty conference room, shoulders slumped at how this meeting has ended.

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**A/N:** I hope everyone is having a wonderful Christmas and holiday season. This has been a tough year for all of us. I am praying for peace for everyone, given the turmoil that just seems to keep churning here, at least here in the U.S. We can be so good. We have such great potential . . . Love to you all.


	14. Chapter 14

**Blank: Chapter 14**

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**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

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_**9:13 a.m. on Tuesday morning, April 17, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

"Well, that could have gone better," Andrew Klein remarks to his wife, Cassandra. After the somewhat stunning and decidedly chilly reception from Richard Castle and virtually everyone they met at the Castles Complex, the two quietly walked out of the conference room, hand in hand, and made their way down the hallway to the front door. No one bothered to say hello, goodbye, nothing at all.

Once in the car, they broke their silence as Andrew pulled away. Now approaching the end of the grounds of the complex and ready to pull onto Highway 101 South, the couple now more or less debrief with one another.

"Indeed, it could have," Cassy agrees. "It _should_ have. You heard that Richard Castle had another episode?"

"I was there, of course I heard," he replies testily, then apologies.

"I'm sorry, Cassy. This is not your fault. In fact, you were all but brilliant in there."

"Almost," she agrees. "I certainly did not mean to imply we were threatening them as investors."

"I know, babe," he replies. "And – their threats aside – I honestly don't think they took it as such. But I also think that right now, they have a strong distaste for me. One I cannot blame them for, of course."

"Of course," she agrees. "Still . . ."

She lets the thought hang in the air of the sportster that carries them toward the Golden Gate Bridge as both are alone in their thoughts for a moment. The respite is short-lived, as the Silicon Valley CEO hears and sees a text coming in on his phone. Both glance at it, frowning.

"Could this day get any worse?" Andrew Klein asks. "And so early at that!"

"Shut up, Andy," Cassy tells him. "You're just asking for trouble from the universe."

He nods his head in agreement as he tells her, "Just read it to me."

Picking up her husband's mobile phone, she clicks on the incoming text message, as her features form an even deeper frown, if possible.

"That bad?" he asks, shaking his head.

She doesn't bother reading it aloud. Instead, she simply shows him the one-line text.

_SAM CARLOS: My friend has relapsed. Where is my antidote?_

"It seems that our colleagues here – both Castle and Carlos – are in fairly frequent touch with one another," Klein notices, as he subconsciously pushes the accelerator a bit harder.

"Slow down, Andy," Cassandra tells him. "And yes, it is definitely curious that somehow one of the first calls that Richard Castle – or Kate – might make after he relapses is to Sam Carlos."

The CEO nods his head, then almost comically shakes his head in correction.

"Or . . ." he thinks out loud, pausing for a few seconds, "perhaps Carlos placed the call to them. Which bodes even worse for us."

"True," she agrees, "but now we are talking semantics, degrees of worse. It does not matter. We need an antidote, and I fear we are running out of time."

"He is certainly short on words, that's for sure," Andrew Klein agrees himself, glancing down at the message one more time.

"How do I respond?" she asks. "We certainly can't just ignore a message from Sam."

Klein, however, is deep in thought as they continue their southward trek toward the bridge, that will take them into the city and then down south toward the Valley. His wife knows him well enough to leave things alone when he falls into these states. She knows he is working things out, like a math problem to be solved. It is what he does, and why he is so good at what he does. He puts emotions aside, and just deals with things as though they were a math equation.

It serves him well now as he blinks once, then twice, then turns his head to his wife.

"It can't be a coincidence that we hear from Sam Carlos minutes after leaving Castle's complex back there . . . can it?" he asks.

"Does it matter, babe?" she asks – putting him back into math problem solving mode. "Does it really matter?"

"No, I guess not," he admits.

"What is it you always tell me, that you always tell your development team . . ." she reminds him.

He smiles and reaches over for her hand as he accelerates faster yet again.

"Sometimes an observation is simply that. An observation," he tells her.

"And we don't make an observation more than it is," she finishes for him. "What do we tell Sam?"

He pauses for a couple of seconds and is ready to speak when his wife smiles . . . a wicked smile . . . and starts typing.

"Never mind, babe," she tells him. "I've got this," as she begins typing.

_ANDREW KLEIN: Cassy relapsed today as well. After a visit from Barry Adams. I am motivated._

She reads the text she has typed out loud to her husband, who smiles with her.

"Perfect," he agrees. "No one knows that your latest quote, unquote, relapse was just a ruse. We can use this to our advantage."

"Send?" she asks.

"Hit SEND," he agrees, turning on the radio as the large reddish orange arches come into view.

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_**Around the same time, at 9:20 a.m. on Tuesday morning, April 17, 2012 Detective Jennifer Blackard's home in the Mission District in San Francisco**_

Sam Carlos sits outside in a non-descript Toyota Camry, just across the street from Detective Jennifer Blackard's home. He places the emergency brake on, on the steep incline then glances down at the response from Andrew Klein on his phone.

"Hmmm," he muses aloud. "Interesting on many fronts, Cassy relapsed. And Barry visited Andrew. He must have been spying on his home for his return."

He considers this information for a moment, closing tired eyes with his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He is humming an old tune from the Scorpions, whistling actually, as he smiles. He types a few words, smiles again as he hits SEND.

_SAM CARLOS: Tick tock, Tick tock._

He opens the car door and pulls himself out of the small import car and walks across the street toward the front door. Sunglasses, a San Francisco Giants cap and an oversized Giants winter jacket hide his identity enough for this visit.

He pauses, chuckling as he feels a few butterflies stirring in his stomach.

"Go away little ones," he whispers under his breath as he rings the doorbell, marveling that a simple visit here gives him more jitters than anything he does in his business.

"_No such thing as a simple visit between she and I,"_ he thinks to himself, ringing the doorbell a second time.

Seconds later, the doorbell opens, presenting a very surprised Jennifer Blackard.

"Sam?" she asks questioningly.

"Your wake-up alarm is a more personal touch this morning, Detective," he tells her, still smiling. She matches his smile as she steps to the side to grant him access into her home.

"A girl could get used to this," she tells him. She wears black sweat bottoms, loose fitting and tailored capris style, with a white San Francisco Giant v-neck t-shirt with red lettering. And flip flops.

"Synchronicity," he tells her as he walks in, noticing their similar attire and smiling at her choice of footwear.

"Let's hope it is a bit more than that," she laughs, shutting the door behind him.

"Indeed, Jennifer," he agrees, taking his coat off. She grabs the coat from him and walks to hang it in the closet a mere three or four feet away, as it this is the most natural thing in the world. As if this visit occurs all of the time.

"What can I do for you, Sam?" she asks. In truth, she has no idea why he is here. He did not give her a wake-up text this morning, as he has done for the past two weeks, and she found herself missing the omission. And while she is glad for the visit, she knows Sam Carlos does nothing without a reason that leads back to his mission in the city.

"Can't a man just want to see a friend?" he asks, glancing around her place again. Yes, he has been here once before, but did not really take the time to really absorb her home. He does so now, for multiple reasons.

"Is that really what this is, Sam?" she asks.

"From my point of view, yes," he replies. "At some point, you and I have to have some type of conversation that does not involve what you do, or what I do, or what he said, or she said. I am hoping that conversation occurs today. This morning."

It is a rare admission from him, and both know it. The San Francisco detective responds by taking a couple of steps forward, placing her arms around the taller man's torso, just under his shoulders, pulling herself into his chest. Surprised, his arms automatically move on their own accord, wrapping her up. Her brunette hair, freshly-washed this morning from her vantage point, thank God, settles just under his nose, and he cannot help but inhale deeply, breathing the woman in.

'Jennifer –" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Today is oatmeal day," she tells him. "Anytime I have a day off is oatmeal day."

"Oatmeal will be fine, thank you," he tells her, as she disengages from their hug, but grabs his hand and leads him to the kitchen.

"I was already boiling water, and just need to add more," she tells him. "Bowls are right there in the cabinet to your right. Spoons in the drawer right below."

She grabs another cup and dumps it in the canister next to the boiling water, and adds another cup of oatmeal. She reaches over and grabs a second banana and sets it next to the one she had already taken out for herself. As he sets the bowl on the small table in the eating area, with two spoons, he turns and finds her standing next to him again. Immediately, she pulls him toward her into another hug. This time, both are quiet for a few seconds, simply enjoying something that most people do every day. Something that escapes them in their chosen professions.

She hears the water and oatmeal boiling once more, and disengages yet again. Both feel the absence.

"Milk is in the fridge," she tells him. "Can you get it for us?"

He does not miss the usage, the term 'us', and cannot help but smile. It is completely new to the San Francisco mobster, and the newness is a welcome thing for him. In this place. With this woman.

She begins to pour the oatmeal into each bowl that she grabbed from the table, and quickly begins chopping the bananas into the hot cereal.

"Sugar?" she asks.

"Two, please," he tells her.

"Same here," she smiles.

"Do tell," he smiles with her.

"I just did," she replies, chuckling.

"Is this what normal is like, Jennifer?" he asks. She can tell that he is serious. She can tell he needs an answer.

"What makes you think I know what normal is," she laughs. "But it is nice. It is peaceful. It is . . . home."

He simply nods his head, as he grabs one of the bowls, and pours milk into it, walking toward the small table. She follows with her bowl, sitting across from him, mere feet separating them.

"Let's get used to this, Sam," she tells him, her spoon in the air.

"Salud," he smiles, clinking his spoon on hers as he begins to eat.

"Willie isn't outside waiting in a car somewhere?" she suddenly asks.

"No."

"No other reason you came here?" she asks again. She has to know.

"No."

She takes another bite of the oatmeal, smiling.

"As I said, let's get used to this, Sam," she tells him.

"So, what happens after oatmeal on such a fine day?" he asks, now laughing out loud. It is a genuine laugh. It feels different. It feels good.

"You mock me?" she laughs with him.

"Not at all," he tells her, growing serious. "Let's just say that I am . . . I am out of my element at the moment, Jennifer."

She nods her head, taking another bite of the morning breakfast. Swallowing, she gazes up at him to answer.

"We watch television on the couch. We talk on the couch. We read on the couch, or listen to music. We just relax."

"But whatever we do involves said couch over there," he laughs.

"Yes, it does," she laughs in reply. "My house, my rules."

"Noted," he tells her. "I look forward to relaxing in your house, with your rules."

As if the universe is testing the fledgling couple, an incoming text message rings on his phone, bringing a frown to the detective. She can't be disappointed, though. He has given her more time this morning – more uninterrupted time focusing on her, on them, than he has in years.

"Baby steps," she tells herself, but it still hurts. The hurt, however, is fleeting, as she notices him continue to eat.

"Not going to answer?" she asks, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"Couch. Television. Talking. Reading. You didn't mention anything about answering or making phone calls," he smiles. "Your rules, remember?"

She smiles again, taking another bite, wondering exactly where this morning will lead.

.

_**9:20 a.m. on Tuesday morning, April 17, 2012 at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

Kate Beckett and Mike Monroe sit inside Richard Castle's office, at the small conference table that sits four easily. Lindy Matthews has just walked in, heading straight for the floor-standing water dispenser, grabbing a plastic cup and pouring herself a drink.

"Where's the boss?" she asks, bringing her cup of water to the table. "Or I guess I should say, _how_ is the boss?"

"A bathroom break," Mike tells her, sipping on the cup of coffee in his hands. "You missed all the fireworks."

"Must have been a dud show, as I didn't hear anything," she replies, her eyes taking in everything around them.

"Problems, Lindy?" Kate asks.

"Nope. Just looking for anything out of the ordinary that might spook Rick," she replies. "Now, what about these supposed fireworks?"

"The Kleins . . . the CEO who manufactures the drug in Rick . . . he and his wife visited this morning." Mike replies.

"Really," Lindy offers, eyebrows raised. "You decked him I hope."

"Didn't get a chance," Monroe laughs. "Rick beat me to it."

"The boss punched him?" Lindy asks, surprised. "Sweet! Nice to see he has that in him."

Kate laughs with the couple, drinking her coffee when the man in question opens the door and walks in.

"Ah, Lindy, it's nice to see you," he offers as a greeting. "When are you getting me my new autographed bat?"

In reply, the blonde gazes across the room to the window, acting as if she is looking outside.

"What are you doing?" Kate asks.

"Checking to see if hell has frozen over," Lindy replies seriously, before collapsing in laughter. Three other smiling faces join her as Castle sits, taking in his friends.

"So, what did we learn this morning?" he begins, and the smiles disappear and two stoic faces gaze at him, while Lindy frowns, looking at the side of her cup.

"They came to apologize," Kate begins.

"But why, that is the question," Mike agrees.

"Later for that," Castle nods. "For now, let's stick with what we know."

"They apologized," Kate repeats.

"They are concerned about Sam," Monroe continues."

"Cassy has been infected, just as you have, Rick," Kate adds.

"His wife?" Lindy asks, as that bit of information gets her attention.

"Yes," Kate replies. "She was injected by Sam Carlos. His way of providing more personal motivation, I think is how Andrew put it."

"I really like that man," Lindy offers, downing the entire cup of water in two large gulps before standing and walking to the dispenser for a refill.

"So that's what we know," Castle continues. "Now. Why? Ideas. Thoughts."

"I think Mr. Klein was coming here to gain your favor, Rick," Monroe states. "I think that he is feeling the pressure. It has been two weeks since you got the antidote. And we all know that Sam Carlos isn't exactly the poster boy for patience."

"That's my read as well," Kate agrees, chuckling. "I think they wanted to apologize, they wanted you to know that she is infected as well . . . and I think – and this is supposition right now – but I think they wanted us to relay this to Sam. To perhaps buy themselves more time."

"They certainly didn't hesitate to throw Barry Adams under the bus," Castle notes.

"But we already know that Barry is the one behind all of this," Kate agrees.

"Yes, _we _know that," Castle concurs. "But did _they_ know that _we_ know that, _before_ they came here? What exactly did they know, and what did they learn this morning?"

"And _that_, my friends, is how you should be thinking," Lindy interrupts. "From what I am hearing, perhaps they wanted to leave a message for you, but perhaps they also wanted to learn something. They could pick up the phone, Boss, and apologize. They came here for some other reason."

The team is quiet for a few seconds before three sets of heads nod in agreement. Suddenly, Kate slams her fist on the table, putting it together.

"When you hit him, Rick,-" Kate begins, but is interrupted by Lindy Matthews.

"Wish I could have seen that," she muses with a smile. "We have surveillance here, don't we? I want to see that –"

"Focus, slugger," Kate tells her, and the two women laugh at their not-so-secret secret.

"When you hit him, Rick," Kate continues, "he mumbled something that I barely picked up. It didn't make sense to me at the time, but now that we are thinking about it, it makes sense."

"What did he say, babe?" Castle asks.

"He said – and I think this is pretty much a direct quote – 'Well I guess that answers that question'," she replies.

The foursome silently consider Kate's words before responding.

"I hit him, he falls, he gets up and says that answers that question," Castle repeats.

"What question?" Monroe asks the room, then answers his own question.

"Did you know," Monroe states. "They wanted to know whether or not you knew who provided the drug that you were injected with. They wanted to know if you knew that it was his company that created the drug."

"And once they knew that, it became important for them to make sure that we did not blame them for what is happening to you, Rick," Kate adds.

"They wanted us – if we are right – to deliver some type of message to Sam," Castle states aloud. "But why would they want us to deliver a message to Sam. Why not deliver it themselves?"

"Because – as you stated a minute ago," Lindy answers, "Sam Carlos injected his wife. To do that, they had to meet. So, if they have had a meeting with Carlos and Klein's wife ends up infected . . . well, were I them, I'd want to limit further meetings with the man."

"True," Castle agrees, and both Kate and Mike nod their heads in agreement as well.

"So . . ." Castle asks the room at large. "What do we do?"

The room is quiet for four or five seconds before Kate Beckett answers, and her response is a surprise to all in the room, and a pleasant surprise for the blonde at the table in particular.

"We do nothing," Kate tells them, morphing into detective mode. "They want us to deliver a message. We do nothing. We don't play into their hands."

"Let them deliver the message on their own," Monroe agrees.

Castle looks from person to person at the table, then smiles at his great fortune for having such good friends who have his back.

"Agreed," he finally states. "We do nothing."

"Excellent," Lindy claps. "Now, can we eat? Because I'm famished," she tells them, as laughter rises in the room.

.

**A/N:** Merry Christmas to all of you. I will post the next two chapters before the new year. New Years 2021, that is. I know I delay but even I'm not that bad. 😊


	15. Chapter 15

**Blank: Chapter 15**

**.**

**.**

**DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

_**9:20 a.m. on Tuesday morning, April 17, 2012, somewhere on Highway 101 south of San Francisco, California**_

"Dammit," Andrew Klein remarks, a worried brow now dominating the face of the Silicon Valley CEO as he and his wife head back to the Valley after the semi-successful yet somewhat disastrous meeting at the Castles Complex in Sausalito. Now, firmly entrenched in the hour-plus drive back home, the two originally felt confident in Cassandra's response to Sam Carlos' initial text message asking for a status update.

Now, however, after sending what they thought to be the perfect response only to receive Carlos' four-word warning, neither is feeling the least bit confident. About anything.

'_Tick tock, Tick tock.'_

That was it. Four words. Four menacing words.

"Damn, could he have been more ominous . . ." Cassy muses aloud, angrily. This is quickly spiraling out of control. They went away for two weeks. Two weeks. Enough time for them to strategize and game-plan. So far, their tactics with Barry Adams have worked, flawlessly.

Their tactics with Richard Castle have been somewhat less successful.

Their tactics with Sam Carlos? She smiles sadly, realizing that they were just being foolish to think that Sam Carlos is one who can be 'game-planned.'

"I think he wants us to know that his patience is approaching its end," Andrew agrees. "And we are not where I want us to be . . . where I _need_ us to be before giving Sam Carlos anything else. At this point, giving him anything short of a completely successful antidote is out of the question."

"You may not have a choice in the matter, babe," she reminds him. "He is already telling us – right here in plain English with this text – that the countdown is on."

"What does he expect me to do, pull a miracle out of my ass?" Andrew Klein angrily retorts. "This isn't the type of thing you can just put a gun to someone's head about."

"Sam plays by a different set of rules," she reminds him again. "Angry or not, we'd be wise not to forget that. And let's not even think about putting a gun to someone's head. We both know – firsthand – that a gun to someone's head is a comfortable position for Sam Carlos."

"Eleven, Cassy," he reminds her, ignoring her previous words. "We are up to eleven deaths. Well, sort of deaths. We fixed the original not-waking-up-side effect, but this latest dose has killed – and I mean literally killed – the last few subjects. We just simply are not close, unless we go back to square one."

With those words they continue to ride quietly for another mile or so down the highway before Cassy throws an idea out.

"Call him," she tells him.

"Are you crazy?" he asks her, incredulously.

"No, really, Andy. Call him."

"No!" he replies adamantly. "You have lost your mind now."

"Andy, do you want to take another phone call from him?" she asks. "At some point, you and I have to be in the driver's seat."

"With Sam Carlos?" he cries incredulously.

"Even if it is only semantics," she interrupts. "We cannot continue just reacting to some hostile play Sam throws out. Call him. We will tell him the truth. You have tried something that showed early progress, but for some reason it is not working right now, and we have to step back and troubleshoot. This takes time –"

"We don't _have_ time, Cass," He barks, a little louder than he wished.

"We don't have _a choice_, Andy," she argues back just as loud. "If we say nothing right now, at this moment, then to someone like Sam Carlos, that is tacit to accepting his warning. It is as if we are telling him we understand his timeline and are on pace with him. That is far from the truth. He has to know different. And he has to know that _now_."

The couple drive for another mile or two before Andrew Klein responds. His response is to grab the phone with his free right hand, scrolling until he reaches Sam Carlos' contact and punching CALL.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. Then again. A fifth time and suddenly the voice of Sam Carlos answers, requesting they leave a message.

"No answer?" Andrew Klein observes out loud, the surprise evident in his voice. "He just gave us a double warning, and now when I call back, there is no answer?"

His voice rises with a shrill pitch with his statement, as Cassy is no less surprised.

"That does not . . . that does not bode well," she states to no one in particular, her face falling into her hands with a heavy sigh.

"Call again?" he asks. "Should I call –"

"No," she replies, shaking her head, and now staring out the passenger window. "He has already given us his reply with his decision not to answer the phone. Plus, that's not our only problem now."

"What do you mean?" he asks, clearly wondering where she is going with this. Who in the world can be more of a problem than Sam Carlos?"

"Not more, Andy," she tells him. "Just _another_ problem. The people back at the complex. Perhaps we are wrong. Perhaps I am wrong. What if they did take our words there – my words – as a threat?"

"But there was no threat," he argues. "If they think that, then it is just a misunderstanding that –"

"That we have no time to correct," she tells him. "We – you – me – _we_ have to find an antidote. That is our priority. Because it just occurred to me that Mr. Richard Castle does not need Sam Carlos to fight his battles. He has his own formidable security team there. He made a point of showing that. And we have met the first of them, who clearly has taken a dislike to us," she concludes, remembering the words of the tall black man as they left.

Quiet consumes the small car once again for a few seconds before Andrew Klein replies.

"What do I do now?" he wonders aloud.

"Pray for a miracle," Cassy tells him, still staring out the passenger window. "We pray for a miracle."

.

_**10:47 a.m. on Tuesday morning, April 17, 2012, at Detective Jennifer Blackard's Home in the Mission District**_

This is wrong. This is all wrong.

First is the smell. This doesn't smell like his home. And the traffic. The traffic outside is loud and constant. There is no sound of traffic at his home on the old Presidio Army Base. There, amongst the silent trees and gentle fog is a tranquility that he has nowhere else.

Yet he feels that same tranquility, that same peace here. Amidst the noise, and the strange smells, and the . . .

He opens his eyes, blinking a few times to get his bearings. The television is showing some discovery or nature show. But that's not what catches his attention. It is the smell of vanilla shampoo. The smell of her hair. The feel of her head, which lies on his shoulder.

They are sitting on her couch.

"_Hmmm, I fell asleep,"_ he marvels to himself, smiling. His smile widens as he realizes that the detective also fell asleep on his shoulder, and she is still asleep, making cute little sounds as she slumbers.

"_So . . . this is what it is like_," he thinks to himself, once again, not for the first time this morning. Breakfast had been perfect. That is the only word he can think of to describe the previous hour or more. It had been perfect. Quiet, calming, peaceful with a little laughter and a lot of smiles. They had sat down to watch a show and continue just . . . relaxing, enjoying each other's company. For two people who rarely allowing their minds to relax and shut down, sleep was inevitable.

He feels her stirring beneath his head, and only now does he realize that his arm is around her shoulder. And the only reason he realizes this is that – amazingly – his arm instinctively tightens possessively around her as she moves.

"Curious," he finds himself stating out loud.

"What is curious?" she asks him in a low, sleepy voice. It is almost a growl, and another cocoon explodes inside his stomach.

"Nothing, Jennifer," he smiles, as he slowly extracts himself from her. He immediately feels . . . almost a sadness and an emptiness as he pulls himself up and away from her, standing now.

"This morning has been . . . " he begins, but falters for words.

"It was nice, Sam," she finishes for him, yawning as she pulls herself to her feet as well. "And apparently over."

"Only if you wish it to be," he surprises her. "I only wish to check in with . . . a new friend."

"Castle?" she asks.

"Mmm hmm," he acknowledges as he pulls his phone from his pocket. She sees him smirk as he glances at the phone.

"Something funny?" she questions him, moving away toward the kitchen to grab something to drink.

"Something interesting," he replies, as he glances at the missed call from Andrew Klein. Evidently the man is growing a spine. Probably Cassy's effect, no doubt. He pushes the thought aside as he places a call to Richard Castle. It rings twice before he gets his answer.

"Sam," is the greeting he gets from the ex-author, bringing a nod of respect to the mobster.

"Richard, I hope your morning is going decidedly better than . . . well, I hope your morning is going well," Carlos answers.

"A call just about my well-being?" Castle chuckles. "Someone pinch me, because things are not as they seem."

"I take it you are not alone," Sam offers.

"I can be if necessary, but no – I have Kate, Mike, Lindy, Samantha . . . heck Sam, the better question is who is_ not_ here at the moment."

Carlos hears the chuckling in the background, and glances behind him at Jennifer Blackard in the kitchen, pouring two cups of coffee into small cups.

"_Can it really be like this?" _he wonders. _"For someone like me?"_

"I just want you to know that I will be visiting the Silicon Valley tomorrow, looking for progress to help you with your particular affliction," Sam Carlos begins, but is cut off by Castle.

"Don't bother, Sam," Castle tells him. "The people in question visited me this morning."

"Do tell?" Sam replies, surprised. "That's an unexpected development. One that can only mean that they are not as close to a cure as they should be."

"That was my take as well," Castle replies. "They came here specifically to apologize for their involvement. To apologize for all of this getting out of control. And to tell me that they are quite motivated because of his wife's infection."

"They were quite forthcoming then," Carlos remarks, his demeanor changing. The change is evident to Jennifer Blackard, as her face drops in sadness at the abrupt end of their morning.

"_Baby steps,"_ she reminds herself, as she brings both cups of coffee to the couch. She places both on the coffee table in front of the couch, that only minutes before supported two sets of feet."

"Perhaps the current level of motivation is insufficient," Carlos continues, scratching his forehead, eyes closed.

"Well, you cannot get blood out of a turnip," Castle decides. "These are smart people. They will figure it out."

"That's either an incredibly positive or a naively stupid attitude, my friend," Carlos tells him. "I have not yet decided which."

"Probably a bit of both, Sam," Castle admits. "But for now, I would ask you to . . ."

The pause goes on for a few seconds before Sam Carlos bites.

"You would ask me to what, Richard?" Carlos asks, now genuinely curious.

"To stand down, for lack of a better term," Castle tells him. "I appreciate you, Sam. More than I can find words to tell, and that is saying something."

"Indeed, it is," Carlos agrees.

"But this is important," Castle continues. "Because despite my best efforts to do something good here, it is obvious that I am making enemies. Right now, they see me as a fop, an ex-playboy, an author, a philanthropist. And they treat me as such. Bus drivers, gift shop workers, disgruntled husbands and boyfriends, and loan sharks and investors."

"And you no longer wish my . . . assistance . . . with said enemies?" Carlos asks, a smile forming on his face at this unexpected turn.

"It's not that, Sam," Castle corrects him. "There is a time and place for everything. Including my need for your assistance. But not now. People out here need to start looking at me . . . at Kate . . . at this complex, at my team . . . differently. They need to look at us and see that we are not someone to be trifled with. Otherwise, I will constantly be looking to you for your help. I will constantly need that . . . assistance you speak of. And that is not the relationship I want us to have."

"And what relationship is that, Richard?" Carlos asks, now beaming. His new change in demeanor has brought Jennifer Blackard to her feet, wondering what is happening.

"Friends, Sam," Castle tells him. "Friends with Benefits, of a sort."

"Excuse me?" both Sam Carlos on one end and Kate Beckett on the other both utter simultaneously, bringing a chuckle to Richard Castle.

"That was actually funny from this end," Castle tells Carlos while looking directly at Kate. "I mean that sometimes you help me, sometimes I help you. I don't want this to just constantly be a one-way benefit for either of us. And right now, we have taken care of things with your old Stanford friends."

"That must have been some meeting," Carlos admits admiringly.

"Let's just say that Andrew Klein and I now have . . . an understanding. Between my team and your not-so-subtle means, I think Klein got the message."

Carlos is laughing now, totally confusing the detective standing next to him. It is a genuine laugh, one that has no malice, no poor intentions. In fact, for once in a very, very long time, Sam Carlos feels far less . . . alone in this city.

"So, you do not . . .want . . . my help at this moment," Carlos begins, "but may in the future."

"Correct," Castle replies.

"And in the future, I may call upon you . . . not out of obligation, but out of . . . friendship?" Carlos continues.

"Correct," Castle replies again. "It's only fair."

"So, I have an . . .an ally in you and your team," he asks.

"You have a friend, Sam," Castle tells him. "A friend is better than an ally, don't you think?"

"Indeed, my friend," Sam agrees. "Indeed. Do keep in touch."

Carlos hangs up the call, smiling as he replaces his phone into his pocket again. He glances at Jennifer Blackard and then down to the cup of coffee that sits on the coffee table.

"The morning is still young, Jennifer my friend," he tells her as he begins to sit, but pauses – stuck between standing and sitting. It takes her a few seconds to realize what he is doing. He is asking permission. Permission to stay. Permission to sit. She smiles nervously at this very new representation of Sam Carlos.

"As you said, the morning is young," she replies. "And coffee is getting cold."

"Well, we can't allow that," he smiles with her, falling back into the couch. He grabs her cup of coffee and hands it to her as she sits, and then grabs his own cup as well.

"Now, where were we?" Sam asks as he gingerly finds Jennifer's fingers, and slowly entwines his fingers with hers, staring at the television.

.

_**At the same time, now 11:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning, April 17, 2012, at the Castles Complex**_

"You two are getting rather chummy," Kate observes as she stands next to Richard Castle. For the call, he had walked away from the team meeting in the conference room and taken position at the window, looking out at the forest of trees beyond the complex house buildings. He had waved at Kate to come next to his side during the conversation.

"In a good way, I think," he tells her.

"I agree with your stance with him, by the way," she tells him. "One can only have so many favors they owe someone like Sam Carlos."

"True," he agrees. "But I also believe – as I said months ago during that raid on our homes here – that we need to be able to take care of ourselves. It is important that we can take care of ourselves, and it is just as important that people out there – in the city, in the valley . . . wherever . . . it is important that _they_ know we can take care of ourselves as well."

"And that includes Sam," Kate smiles.

"Yes," he confirms her thinking. "That includes Sam. And I think Sam appreciates that. Appreciates us for that. I want Sam to see us as someone who can help him someday."

"That's a dangerous line, Rick," Kate tells him. "I mean, I am not disagreeing . . . per se . . . but is this something you have thought out?"

"How should I know," he chuckles sarcastically. "Maybe I thought of this in the last two weeks, maybe this is the first time I am thinking about it. All I know is that I have made enemies, and some of those enemies are still out there. They need to think of me . . . think of us . . . differently than they do."

With that, he smiles and releases her hand.

"Give me just a minute, babe, if you don't mind," he tells her, smiling. It is an odd ask, coming from him. Secrecy. The slow frown forming on her face is not lost on him.

"I promise you this is good news, babe, and you will find out soon enough – trust me?" he tells her.

"Always," she tells him immediately, and walks back to the conference table while he takes his phone back out and places another call. He gets three rings before there is an answer.

"Cliff House, how may I help you?"

"This is Richard Castle, and I have a reservation for 6pm this Friday night."

It takes a few seconds for the woman on the other end to pull up the reservation, but she confirms it immediately.

"Yes, I have that right here," she tells him.

"I'd like to change that reservation to tonight, if possible," he tells her. "Roughly the same time, if possible."

She glances at the reservation list for this evening, and quickly responds.

"I can do 6:30 this evening," she tells him.

"Perfect, perfect," he smiles, looking upward with thanks at his fortune here. Getting into the Cliff House isn't easy, so perhaps providence is, indeed, with them.

He finishes confirming the reservation and then steps back to the conference table.

"Okay, my friends. I apologize for the interruption," he begins. "Where were we?"

"We were deciding who will pay a visit to NuGenetix this afternoon," Mike Monroe replies, as everyone is re-focused on the meeting at hand.

Richard Castle smiles as he considers which of the members of his team . . . his new family will be selected to deliver a different type of message to the NuGenetix CEO.

"Turnabout is fair play," he thinks to himself, then quickly zones back into the discussion at hand.

.

**A/N:** I hope that everyone had a wonderful Christmas and holiday season. The new year is approaching, and let's hope for a better 2021. Until then, be safe, my friends.


End file.
